FROM   THE  LIBRARY  OF 
REV.   LOUIS    FITZGERALD    BENSON,  D.  D. 

BEQUEATHED   BY   HIM   TO 

THE   LIBRARY  OF 

PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 


Division     <£C-3 
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By  W.  ROBERTSON  NICOLL,  M.A.,  LL.D. 

JAMES  MACDONELL,  JOURNALIST. 

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SONGS   OF   REST: 

Edited  by  W.  Robertson  Nicoll,  LL.D. 
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London  :  HODDER  AND  STOUGHTON. 


SONGS  OF  REST 


SONGS  OF  RES 


EDITED    BY 


W.    ROBERTSON    NICOLL 


NEW     EDITION,    REVISED 
AND    ENLARGED 


Mors  ultra  non  erit,  neque  luctus, 

neque   clamor,   neque   dolor  erit 

ultra  quia  prima  abierunt 


1 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,    MEAD    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 

1897 


Third  Edition 


Edinburgh  :  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  Her  Majesty 


TO 

I.   D.   N. 


They  all  were  looking  for  a  king 

To  slay  their  foes  and  lift  them  high : 

Thou  cam'st,  a  little  baby  thing 
That  made  a  woman  cry. 

0  Son  of  Man,  to  right  my  lot 
Nought  but  Thy  presence  can  avail ; 

Yet  on  the  road  Thy  wheels  are  not, 
Nor  on  the  sea  Thy  sail! 

My  how  or  when  Thou  wilt  not  heed, 
But  come  down  Thine  own  secret  stair, 

That  Thou  mayst  answer  all  my  need, 
Yea,  every  bygone  prayer. 


PREFACE 

This  collection  has  been  published  already  in  two 
series:  the  first  issued  in  1879,  the  second  in  1885. 
Many  thousands  of  these  books  have  been  circu- 
lated in  Britain  and  America.  In  response  to 
repeated  requests,  they  have  now  been  arranged 
in  one  volume.  I  have  taken  the  opportunity  of 
revising  the  whole,  and  of  adding  many  new  pieces. 
It  will  be  observed  that  the  main  purpose  kept  in 
view  throughout  has  been  to  provide  a  book  of 
religious  consolation. 

The  poems,  even  when  by  well-known  writers, 
have  been  largely  selected  from  fugitive  publica- 
tions. My  especial  thanks  are  due  to  Miss 
Christina  G.  Rossetti  for  her  permission  to  include 
so  many  of  her  poems,  and  for  the  kind  interest  she 
has  taken   in   the   work.      I   am  very  grateful   to 


x  PREFACE 

the  many  authors  and  publishers  through  whose 
generosity  I  have  been  able  to  use  copyright  poems. 
Among  these  are  the  late  Mrs.  Craik,  the  late  Rev. 
William  Barnes,  the  late  Mr.  Robert  Browning, 
Dr.  George  Mac  Donald,  Mr.  Skelton,  Messrs.  Mac- 
millan  and  Co.,  Messrs.  Nelson  and  Sons,  the  Rev. 
Alfred  Norris,  and  many  others.  In  one  or  two 
cases  I  have  failed  to  trace  the  authorship  of  the 
poems.  Should  any  have  been  admitted,  through 
inadvertence,  without  permission  of  the  copyright 
holders,  it  is  hoped  the  involuntary  transgression 
will  be  forgiven. 


Bay  Tree  Lodge, 

Frognal,  Hampstead, 
December  1892. 


CONTENTS 


I.     TUE    DESPONDING 

AND    THE    ANXIOUS 

Consider  the  Ravens    . 

George  Mac  Donald     . 

PAGE 
3 

The  Father  of  the  Fatherless 

William  Barnes 

6 

Defeated      .... 

Sarah  Williams 

8 

Christmas  Bells  . 

Charles  Kingsley 

9 

'Not  without  hope  '     . 

Isabella  Fyvie  Mayo 

IO 

The  Mystery  of  God's  Provi- 
dence      .... 

Alfred  Xorris    . 

ii 

A  Call  to  Wandering  Children 

Anon. 

12 

Against  Tears 

Sarah  Williams  . 

J3 

'  The  Sunrise  never  failed  us 
yet'          .         .         .         . 

Celia  Thaxter     . 

14 

Come  unto  Me     . 

Edwin  Paaton  Hood 

15 

Why  art  thou  Sorrowful  ?     . 

Frederick  W.  Faber 

16 

Resting  in  God's  Love 

Anon. 

.     18 

To  a  Mourner      .         .         . 

Alfred  Norris    . 

.       20 

The  Day  is  over  . 

T.  T.  Lynch 

.       22 

Forsaken     .... 

Dora  Greenuell  . 

•     25 

xii 

CONTENTS 

The  Right  must  Win 

, 

Frederick  W.  Faber . 

PAGE 
26 

Better  Things 

George  Mac  Donald  . 

29 

All  Saints    . 

Edwin  Hatch    . 

31 

My  Birthday 

John  Grecnleaf  Whittkr  33 

Losses 

Frances  Browne 

36 

Going  Home 

• 

Frances  Browne 

38 

Consecration 

• 

Edward  Dowden 

40 

Work  and  Rest    . 

Anon. 

41 

Fishermen — not  of  Galilee  . 

Dinah  M.  Craik 

43 

To  the  End 

. 

Anon. 

45 

The  Lamb  of  God 

. 

Katharine  Tynan 

47 

A  Prayer 

. 

Alfred  Norris  . 

48 

Christian  Patience 

George  Matheson 

49 

Would  you  be  Young  again  ? 

Baroness  Nairne 

5i 

II.     THE    SICK    AND    THE   DYING 


A  Reverie  in  Sickness . 

Passing  Away 

The  Flower  of  the  Flock 

Wishes  about  Death     . 

'  Having  a  desire  to  depart ' 


George  Mac  Donald  .  55 

Christina  G.  Rossetti  58 

William  Brighty  Rands  60 

Frederick  W.  Faber  .  63 

John  Stanyan  Bigg   ,  65 


CONTENTS 


xm 


In  the  June  Twilight  . 

A  Song  of  the  River     . 

'Wind  me  a  Summer  Crown,' 
she  said    .... 

Paradise       .... 

Dominus  Illuminatio  Mea    . 

'  I  will  lift  up  mine  eyes ' 

Complete  in  Him 

Through  the  Gates 

A  Good  Confession 

A  Ballad  of  Trees  and  the 
Master     .... 


Dinah  M.  Oraik 
B.  M. 


PAGE 

68 
70 


Menella  Bute  Smedley  73 

Christina  G.  Rossetti  74 

R.D.B..         .         .  76 

Christina  G.  Rossetti  77 

Joseph  A.  Torre y       .  79 

Alfred  Non-is  .         .  80 

Dora  Greenwell         .  82 


Sidney  Lanier  . 
Peace  .....     Henry  Vaughan 


Poor  Ellen  . 

We  shall  Rise  again     . 

Paradise 

Sweet  Death 

Mother  Country  . 

At  Last 

Questions  and  AnsweiM 

Out  of  the  Body  to  God 

To  a  Young  Girl  Dying 


Gerald  Massey  . 
Anon. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti 
Christina  G.  Rossetti 
Christina  G.  Rossetti 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier  98 
Alfred  N orris  .  .100 
Anon,  .  .  .  102 
T.  W.  Parsons  .      104 


86 

87 
88 
90 
92 
94 
95 


XIV 


CONTENTS 


The  Paths  of  Death      , 

'  Talitha  Cumi '    . 

'  Bury  me  in  Kirkbride  ' 

The  Taken  to  the  Left 

Unfulfilled  . 

Dying 

Vespers 


PAGE 

Frederick  W.  Faber  .  105 

W.  B.  Robertson       .  108 

Robert  Wanlock  Reid  1 10 

W.  R.  N.         .         .  113 
Anon.       .         .         .114 

F.  W.  F.          .         .  116 

Dora  Greenwell         .  118 


III.  THE  BEREAVED 


A  Meeting  . 

The  Angel  of  Patience 

Our  Angel  Child 


Anon.  .  .  .123 
JohnGreenleaf  Whittier  124 
John  Stanyan  Bigg    .     125 


'  For  of  such  is  the  kingdom  '     Eliza  W.  Nicoll 

'  When  the  Night  and  Morn- 
ing meet ' 

Released 

( As  in  a  glass  darkly  ' 

Vesta 

The  E'en  brings  a'  Hame 

Bereavement 

Consolation 

In  Time  of  Trouble     . 


128 


Dora  Greenwell  ,  130 
A.  D.  T.  Whitney  .  132 
Alfred  N orris  .  .134 
JohnGreenleaf  Whittier  136 
John  Skelton  .  .137 
E.  B.  Browning  .  138 
E.  B.  Browning  .  139 
BJornstjerne  Bjbrnson    140 


CONTENTS 

XV 

The  Sleep    . 

t 

E.  B.  Browning 

PAGE 
141 

A  Dirge       . 

. 

Alfred  Norris  . 

M3 

Over  the  Hillside 

. 

Dinah  M.  Oraik 

144 

Resignation 

• 

James  Pritchett  Bigg 

I46 

By  the  Dead 

« 

Alfred  Norris  . 

149 

Little  Christel     . 

• 

William  Brighty  Rands  1 52 

A  Farewell  Song 

•        • 

George  Mac  Donald   . 

153 

The  Girl  that  lost  things 

George  Mac  Donald   . 

154 

In  the  Churchyard 

• 

Alfred  Norris  . 

157 

Not  lost,  but  gone  before     . 

Gerald  Massey  . 

I6O 

The  Flower  Fadeth 

. 

William  Knox  Macadam  161 

Home  Visions 

. 

Alfred  Norris  . 

163 

A  Song  of  Rest    . 

. 

Dora  Greenwell 

I65 

Her  Pilgrimage    . 

• 

Anon. 

167 

Are  the  Children  at  Home  ? 

M.  E.  M.  Sangster    . 

169 

The  Silent  Prayer 

. 

Eleanora  L.  Hervcy  . 

172 

Remember  . 

. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti 

174 

Sound  Sleep 

. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti 

175 

Grandfather's  Pet 

. 

Stewart  Robertson 

176 

Into  Mary's  Bosom 

• 

Dinah  M.  Craik 

179 

A  Song  of  Hope  , 

. 

George  Mac  Donuld   , 

182 

xvi                             CONTENTS 

pAge 

At  Nain 

• 

George  A.  Chad  wick 

184 

Ours    .... 

• 

M.  Veley  . 

188 

Tokens 

• 

W.  B.  Philpot  . 

190 

Safe     .... 

. 

8.  K.  P.  . 

191 

Good-night  . 

. 

Frederick  Greenwood 

192 

That  never  was  on   Sea 

or 

Land 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps  194 

The  New  Name    . 

. 

D.  Gilmour 

197 

Just  Dead    . 

. 

Anon. 

198 

All  Saints' Day    . 

. 

Dinah  M.  Craik 

199 

The  Vision  of  the  Snow 

. 

Anon. 

20I 

The  Hymn  of  the  Dead 

• 

Anon. 

203 

In  the  Sea   . 

. 

Hiram  Rich 

205 

Christmas  Song  of  the  Old 

Children  . 

• 

George  Mac  Donald 

207 

The  Wife  a-Lost . 

. 

William  Barnes 

208 

Going  Away 

. 

Dinah  M.  Craik 

2IO 

In  Earliest  Spring 

, 

W.  D.  Howells 

.      212 

I 

THE  DESPONDING  AND 
THE  ANXIOUS 


It  is  good  to  be  last  not  first, 

Pending  the  present  distress  ; 
It  is  good  to  hunger  and  thirsty 

So  it  be  for  righteousness  ; 
It  is  good  to  spend  and  be  spent ; 

It  is  good  to  watch  and  to  pray  ; 
Life  and  death  make  a  goodly  Lent, 

So  it  leads  us  to  Easter  Day. 


CONSIDER  THE  RAVENS 

Lord,  according  to  Thy  words, 
I  have  considered  Thy  birds, 
And  I  find  their  life  good, 
And  better  the  better  understood  : 
Sowing  neither  corn  nor  wheat, 
They  have  all  that  they  can  eat. 

Reaping  no  more  than  they  sow, 
They  have  all  that  they  can  stow  ; 
Having  neither  barn  nor  store, 
Hungry  again,  they  eat  more. 

Considering,  I  see,  too,  that  they 
Have  a  busy  life  and  plenty  of  play  : 
In  the  earth  they  dig  their  bills  deep, 
And  work  well  though  they  do  not  heap  ; 
Then  to  play  in  the  air  they  are  not  loath, 
And  their  nests  between  are  better  than  both. 

But  this  is  when  there  blow  no  storms  ; 
When  berries  are  plenty  in  winter,  and  worms 


THE  DESPONDING 

When  their  feathers  are  thick,  and  oil  is  enough 
To  keep  the  cold  out  and  the  rain  off; 
If  there  should  come  a  long,  hard  frost, 
Then  it  looks  as  if  Thy  birds  were  lost. 


But  I  consider  further,  and  find 

A  hungry  bird  has  a  free  mind  ; 

He  is  hungry  to-day,  not  to-morrow  ! 

Steals  no  comfort,  no  grief  doth  borrow  ; 

This  moment  is  his,  Thy  will  hath  said  it, 

The  next  is  nothing  till  Thou  hast  made  it. 

The  bird  has  pain,  but  has  no  fear, 

Which  is  the  worst  of  any  gear  : 

When  cold  and  hunger  and  harm  betide  him, 

He  gathers  them  not  to  stuff  inside  him  ; 

Content  with  the  day's  ill  he  has  got, 

He  waits  just,  nor  haggles  with  his  lot ; 

Neither  jumbles  God's  will 

With  dribblets  from  his  own  still. 

But  next  I  see,  in  my  endeavour, 
Thy  birds  here  do  not  live  for  ever ; 
That  cold  or  hunger,  sickness  or  age, 
Finishes  their  earthly  stage  ; 
The  rook  drops  without  a  stroke, 
And  never  gives  another  croak  ; 
Birds  lie  here,  and  birds  lie  there, 
With  little  feathers  all  astare  ; 
And  in  Thy  own  sermon,  Thou 
That  the  sparrow  falls  dost  allow. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  5 

It  shall  not  cause  me  any  alarm, 
For  neither  so  comes  the  bird  to  harm, 
Seeing  our  Father,  Thou  hast  said, 
Is  by  the  sparrow's  dying  bed  : 
Therefore  it  is  a  blessed  place, 
And  the  sparrow  in  high  grace. 
It  cometh  therefore  to  this,  Lord  : 
I  have  considered  Thy  word, 
And  henceforth  will  be  Thy  bird. 

George  Mac  Donald. 


THE  DESPONDING 
THE  FATHER  OF  THE  FATHERLESS 

DORSET  DIALECT 

As  I  wer  readen  ov  a  stwone, 
In  Grenley  Church-yard,  all  alwone, 
A  little  maid  ran  up,  wi'  pride 
To  zee  me  there  ;  an'  push'd  aside 
A  bunch  o'  bennets,  that  did  hide 
A  verse  her  father,  as  she  zaid 
Put  up  above  her  mother's  head, 
To  tell  how  much  he  loved  her. 

The  verse  wer  short,  but  veiy  good, 
I  stood  and  learn  d  en  where  I  stood  : 
fMid  God,  dear  Mary,  gie  me  greace, 
To  vind,  like  thee,  a  better  pleace, 
Where  I,  oonce  mwore,  mid  zee  thy  feace, 
An'  bring  thy  children  up,  to  know 
His  word,  that  they  mid  come  and  show 
Thy  soul  how  much  I  loved  thee.' 

{ Where 's  father,  then,'  I  zaid,  '  my  chile  ? ' 
'  Dead  too/  she  answer'd  wi'  a  smile  : 
'  An'  I  an'  brother  Jem  do  bide 
At  Betty  White's,  o'  tother  zide 
O'  road.' — '  Mid  He,  my  chile/  I  cried, 
' That's  father  to  the  fatherless, 
Become  thy  father  now,  an'  bless, 
An'  keep,  an'  lead,  an'  love  thee/ 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS 

Though  she  've  a'  lost,  I  thought  so  much, 
Still  He  don't  let  the  thoughts  o't  touch 
Her  litsome  heart,  by  clay  or  night  : 
An'  zoo,  if  we  could  teiike  it  right, 
Do  show  He  '11  meake  His  burdens  light 
To  weaker  souls ;  and  that  His  smile 
Is  sweet  upon  a  harmless  chile, 
When  they  be  dead  that  loved  it. 

William  Barnes. 


THE  DESPONDING 


DEFEATED 


My  darling,  O  my  darling  !  with  the  soft  sad  eyes, 
Set  like  twilight  planets  in  the  raining  skies, 
With  the  brow  all  patience  and  the  lips  all  pain, 
Save  the  curve  for  kisses — kiss  me,  love,  once  again. 

My  priestess,   O  my   priestess !    with   the   almond 

bough 
That  her  pale  hand  holdeth,  dry  and  barren  now, 
With  its  crown  of  blossoms  by  the  rude  wind  rent, 
With  the  gift  God-taken  that  of  God  was  sent. 

Mine  empress,  O  mine  empress  !  with  the  shatter  d 

throne, 
Is  there  yet  no  kingdom  we  can  call  thine  own  ? 
Is  success  the  only  thing  the  world  holds  good  ? 
Or  is  God  as  man,  and  could  not  if  He  would  ? 

No,  no,  by  all   the   martyrs,    and   the    dear  dead 

Christ ; 
By  the  long  bright  roll  of  those  whom  joy  enticed, 
With  her  myriad  blandishments,  but  could  not  win, 
Who  would  fight  for  victory,  but  would  not  sin ; 

By  these,  our  elder  brothers,  who  have  gone  before, 
And  have  left  their  trail  of  light  upon  our  shore, 
We  can  see  the  glory  of  a  seeming  shame, 
We  can  feel  the  fulness  of  an  empty  name. 

Sarah  Williams. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  9 

CHRISTMAS    BELLS 

It  chanced  upon  the  merry,  merry  Christmas  Eve, 
I  went  singing  past  the  church,  across  the  moorland 

dreary, 
Oh !  never  sin,  and  want,  and  woe  this  earth  will 

leave, 
And  the  bells  but  mark  the  wailing  sound,  they  sing 

so  cheery. 
How   long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  before  Thou  come 

again  ? 
Still  in  cellar,  and  in  garret,  and  on  moorland  dreary 
The  orphans  moan,  and  widows  weep,  aud  poor  men 

toil  in  vain, 
Till   the  earth  is  sick    of  hope   deferred,    though 

Christmas  bells  be  cheery. 
Then  arose  a  joyous  clamour  from  the  wild-fowl  on 

the  mere, 
Beneath  the  stars,  across  the  snow,  like  clear  bells 

ringing ; 
And  a  voice  within  cried,  Listen !  Christmas  carols 

even  here  ! 
Though  thou  be  dumb,  yet  o'er  their  work  the  stars 

and  snows  are  singing. 
Blind  !  I  live,  I  love,  I  reign  ;  and  all  the  nations 

through 
With  the  thunder  of  my  judgments  even  now  are 

ringing  ; 
Do  thou  fulfil  thy  work  but  as  yon  wild-fowl  do, 
Thou  wilt  heed  no  less  the  wailing,  yet  hear  through 

it  the  angels  singing. 

Charles  Kingsley. 


10  THE  DESPONDING 


NOT  WITHOUT  HOPE 


They  say  you  are  not  as  you  were 

In  days  of  long  ago  ; 
That  clouds  came  o'er  your  sun  at  noon, 

And  dimmed  its  golden  glow. 

Yet  every  gentler  word  I  say, 

Each  gentler  deed  I  do, 
Is  but  a  blossom  on  the  grave 

Where  sleeps  my  love  for  you. 

And  can  a  weed  bring  forth  a  flower  ? 

Or  blight  bear  beauty  ?     Nay, 
This  darkness  is  but  short  eclipse, 

To  surely  pass  away. 

Though  one  by  one  my  early  friends 

Have  faded  from  my  prayer, 
Your  name  was  always  first  and  last, 

And  still  it  lingers  there. 

I  love  but  dearer  for  my  fears 

And  prayers  for  such  an  one  ; 
I  think  God  does  not  love  us  less 

For  costing  Him  His  Son. 

And  I  believe  when  death  shall  break 

This  spell  of  human  pain, 
The  love  that  I  to  God  intrust 

He  '11  give  to  me  again. 

Isabella  Fijvie  Mayo. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  11 


THE  MYSTERY  OF  GOD'S  PROVIDENCE 

You  hear  an  endless  cry  that  goes 

Lamenting  through  the  sombre  air, 
Of  nations  bent  with  many  woes, 

Or  gauntly  wrestling  with  despair. 
/  hear  a  psalm  by  myriads  sung — 

A  psalm  that  knows  no  stint  nor  stay, 
And  lo  !  a  voice  calls  old  and  young 

To  be  indeed  as  blest  as  they. 

You  watch  a  life  bereft  of  light, 

For  ever  wrapt  in  unthinned  gloom, 
Whose  only  tranquil  time  seems  night, 

Whose  happiest  hope  and  rest  the  tomb ; 
/  watch  the  life  and  know  that  God 

So  guides  the  soul  to  heaven  above  ; 
You  only  see  the  smiting  rod — 

But  ah  !  the  Power  that  smites  is  Love. 

You  see  a  world  that  wildly  whirls 

Through  coiling  clouds  of  battle-smoke, 
And  drench'd  with  blood  the  children's  curls 

And  women's  hearts  by  thousands  broke  ; 
/  see  a  host  above  it  all, 

Where  angels  wield  their  conquering  sword, 
And  thrones  may  rise  or  thrones  may  fall, 

But  comes  the  kingdom  of  the  Lord. 

Alfred  Norris. 


12  THE  DESPONDING 


A  CALL  TO  WANDERING  CHILDREN 

My  blood  so  red 

For  thee  was  shed, 

Come  home  again,  come  home  again, 

My  own  sweet  heart,  come  home  again. 
You've  gone  astray 
Out  of  your  way, 
Come  home  again,  come  home  again. 

From  a  MS.  of  the  17 th  Century,  quoted 
by  Charles  Stanford,  D.  D. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  13 


AGAINST  TEARS 

The  world  is  all  too  sad  for  tears; 

I  would  not  weep,  not  I, 
But  smile  along  my  life's  short  road, 

Until  I,  smiling,  die. 

The  little  flowers  breathe  sweetness  out, 

Through  all  the  dewy  night  ; 
Shall  I  more  churlish  be  than  they, 

And  plain  for  constant  light  ? 

Not  so,  not  so,  no  load  of  woe 
Need  bring  despairing  frown  ; 

For  while  we  bear  it,  we  can  bear  ; 
Past  that,  we  lay  it  down. 

Sarah  Williams. 


14  THE  DESPONDING 


THE  SUNRISE  NEVER  FAILED  US  YET.' 

Upon  the  sadness  of  the  sea 
The  sunset  broods  regretfully, 
From  the  far  lonely  spaces  slow 
Withdraws  the  wistful  after-glow. 

So  out  of  life  the  splendour  dies, 
So  darken  all  the  happy  skies, 
So  gathers  twilight,  cold  and  stern, 
But  overhead  the  planets  burn. 

And  up  the  east  another  day, 
Shall  chase  the  bitter  dawn  away. 
What  though  our  eyes  be  wet  with  tears  ! 
The  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet  : 

The  blush  of  dawn  may  yet  restore 
Our  light,  and  hope,  and  joy  once  more. 
Sad  soul,  take  comfort,  nor  forget 
That  sunrise  never  failed  us  yet. 

Celia  Thaxter. 


AND  THi:  ANXIOUS  15 

COME  UNTO  ME 

Heart-broken  and  weary,  where'er  thou  may'st  be. 
There  are  no  words  like  these  words  for  comforting 

thee ; 
When  sorrows  come  round  thee  like  waves  of  the  sea, 
The  Saviour  says  cheerfully,  ( Come  unto  Me.' 

There  are  no  words  like  these  words,  *  Come  hither 

and  rest '  ; 
Afflicted,  forsaken,  the  thorn  in  thy  breast, 
All  lonely  and  helpless  He  thought  upon  thee, 
And  He  said  in  His  tenderness,  '  Come  unto  Me.' 

O  Saviour  !  my  spirit  would  fain  be  at  rest ; 

There  are  passions  which  rage  like  a  storm  in  my 

breast, 
O  show  me  the  road  along  which  I  must  flee, 
And  strengthen  me,  Saviour,  to  come  unto  Thee. 

There  are  no  words  like  these  words  :  how  blessed 

they  be, 
How  calming  when  Jesus  says,  e  Come  unto  Me  ! ' 

0  hear  them,  my  heart,  they  were  spoken  to  thee, 
And  still  they  are  calling  thee,  '  Come  unto  Me.' 

1  will  walk  through  the  world  with  these  words  in 

my  heart, 
Through  sorrow  or  sin  they  shall  never  depart ; 
And,  when  dying,  I  hope  He  will  whisper  to  me, 
1 1  have  loved  thee,  and  saved  thee ;  come,  sinner 

to  Me.' 

Edwin  Paxton  Hood, 


16  THE  DESPONDING 


WHY  ART  THOU  SORROWFUL? 

Why  art  thou  sorrowful,  servant  of  God  ? 
And  what  is  this  dulness  that  hangs  o'er  thee  now  ? 
Sing  the  praises  of  Jesus,  and  sing  them  aloud, 
And  the  song  shall  dispel  the  dark  cloud  from  thy 
brow. 

For  is  there  a  thought  in  the  wide  world  so  sweet, 
As  that  God  has  so  cared  for  us,  bad  as  we  are, 
That  He  thinks  of  us,  plans  for  us,  stoops  to  entreat, 
And  follows  us,  wander  we  ever  so  far  ? 

Then  how  can  the  heart  e'er  be  drooping  or  sad 
Which  God  hath  once  touched  with  the  light  of  His 

grace  ? 
Can  the  child  have  a  doubt  who  but  lately  hath  laid 
Himself  to  repose  in  his  Father's  embrace  ? 

And  is  it  not  wonderful,  servant  of  God ! 
That  He  should  have  honoured  us  so  with  His  love: 
That  the  sorrows  of  life  should  but  shorten  the  road 
Which  leads  to  Himself  and  the  mansion  above  ? 

O  then,  when  the  spirit  of  darkness  comes  down 
With  clouds  and  uncertainties  into  thy  heart, 
One  look  to  the  Saviour,  one  thought  of  thy  crown, 
And  the  tempest  is  over,  the  shadows  depart. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  17 

That  God  hath  once  whispered  a  word  in  thine  ear 
Or  sent  thee  from  heaven  one  sorrow  for  sin, 
Is  enough  for  a  life  both  to  banish  all  fear, 
And  to  turn  into  peace  all  the  troubles  within. 

Then  why  dost  thou  weep  so  ?     For  see  how  time 

flies — 
The  time  that  for  loving  and  praising  was  given. 
Away  with  thee,  child,  then,  and  hide  thy  red  eyes 
In  the  lap.  the  kind  lap.  of  thy  Father  in  heaven. 

Frederick  W.  Faber. 


J 


18  THE  DESPONDING 


RESTING  IN  GOD'S  LOVE 

0  Lord,  how  happy  is  the  time 
When  in  Thy  love  I  rest ! 

When  from  my  weariness  I  climb 
Even  to  Thy  tender  breast ! 

The  night  of  sorrow  endeth  there — 
Thon  art  brighter  than  the  sun ; 

And  in  Thy  pardon  and  Thy  care 
The  heaven  of  heavens  is  won. 

Let  the  world  call  herself  my  foe, 
Or  let  the  world  allure  ; 

1  care  not  for  the  world — I  go 

To  this  dear  Friend  and  sure. 
And  when  life's  fiercest  storms  are  sent 

Upon  life's  wildest  sea, 
My  little  bark  is  confident, 

Because  it  holds  by  Thee. 

When  the  law  threatens  endless  death 

Upon  the  awful  hill, 
Straightway  from  her  consuming  breath 

My  soul  goes  higher  still : — 
Goeth  to  Jesus  wounded,  slain, 

And  maketh  Him  her  home, 
Whence  she  will  not  go  out  again, 

And  where  death  cannot  come. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  19 

I  do  not  fear  the  wilderness 

Where  Thou  hast  been  before, 
Nay,  rather  will  I  daily  press 

After  Thee,  hear  Thee  more. 
Thou  art  my  food;  on  Thee  I  lean  ; 

Thou  makest  my  heart  sing  ; 
And  to  Thy  heavenly  pastures  green 

All  Thy  dear  flock  dost  bring. 

And  if  the  gate  that  opens  there 

Be  dark  to  other  men, 
It  is  not  dark  to  those  who  share 

The  heart  of  Jesus  then. 
That  is  not  losing  much  of  life, 

Which  is  not  losing  Thee, 
Who  art  as  present  in  the  strife 

As  in  the  victory. 

Therefore  how  happy  is  the  time 

When  in  Thy  love  I  rest ! 
When  from  my  weariness  I  climb 

Even  to  Thy  tender  breast ! 
The  night  of  sorrow  endeth  there — 

Thou  art  brighter  than  the  sun, 
And  in  Thy  pardon  and  Thy  care, 

The  heaven  of  heavens  is  won. 


20  THE  DESPONDING 


TO  A  MOURNER 

Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ? 

All  the  days  are  dark  to  you — 
Never  comes  a  lift  or  lightening — 

Never  strength  to  smile  them  through. 

Do  you  know  that  every  lifetime., 
Yes,  the  narrowest  and  most  drear, 

Is  a  cup  that  still  runs  over 

With  the  gifts  of  God  most  dear  ? 

Do  you  know  that  thousands,  thousands, 
In  this  world  of  sin  and  shame, 

Bear  a  burden  to  which  yours  is 
But  the  emptiest,  idlest  name  ? 

Do  you  know  God's  saints  are  chosen 

Oftentimes  to  suffer  sore, 
That  the  crown  may  be  more  golden, 

When  the  suffering  is  o'er  ? 

Do  you  know  He  gives  them  sorrow, 
Makes  it  often  sharp  and  long, 

That  their  voices  may  be  sweeter 

When  they  join  the  glad  '  New  Song  ' 

Do  you  know  the  lot  He  chose  Him, 
When  on  earth  He  drew  His  breath, 

Was  the  cradle  in  the  manger, — 
And  the  house  at  Nazareth  ? 


, 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  21 

Do  you  know  the  path  He  travel  I'd 

Firmly,  strongly,  day  by  day — 
How  the  thorns  and  tears  commingled 

Till  the  Cross  barr'd  up  the  way  ? 

Do  you  know  how  dark  the  death-cave — 
How  she  wept  there,  Magdalene ; 

Soon  how  real  the  Resurrection, 
And  the  great  Ascension  Scene  ? 

Yes,  you  know  it ;  dry  your  tears,  then  ; 

Cease  your  mourning,  change  your  ways, 
Look  for  God's  high  forward  meanings  ; 

His  the  power  and  His  the  praise. 

Alfred  N orris. 


22  THE  DESPONDING 


THE   DAY   IS   OVER 

The  day  is  over, 

The  feverish  careful  day, 
Can  I  recover 

Strength  that  has  ebbed  away  ? 
Can  ever  sleep  such  freshness  give, 
That  I  again  should  wish  to  live  ? 

Let  me  lie  down, 

No  more  I  seek  to  have 
A  heavenly  crown : 
Give  me  a  quiet  grave, 
Release,  and  not  reward,  I  ask, — 
Too  hard  for  me  life's  heavy  task. 

Now  let  me  rest : 

Hushed  be  my  striving  brain, 
My  beating  breast ; 

Let  me  put  off  my  pain, 
And  feel  me  sinking,  sinking  deep 
Into  an  abyss  of  sleep. 

The  morrow's  noise, 

Its  anguish,  hope,  and  fear, 
Its  empty  joys, 

Of  these  I  shall  not  hear; 
Call  me  no  more,  I  cannot  come, 
I  'm  gone  to  be  at  rest  at  home. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  23 

Earth  undesired 

And  not  for  heaven  meet, 
In  one  so  tired 

What's  left  but  slumber  sweet — 
Beneath  a  grassy  mound  of  trees, 
Or  at  the  bottom  of  the  seas  ? 

Yet  let  me  have 

Once  in  a  thousand  years 
Thoughts  in  my  grave  ; 

To  know  how  free  from  fears 
I  sleep,  and  that  I  there  shall  lie 
Through  undisturbed  eternity. 

And  when  I  wake 

Then  let  me  hear  above 
The  birds  that  make 

Songs,  not  of  human  love  ; 
Or  muffled  tones  my  ear  may  reach 
Of  storms  that  sound  from  beach  to  beach. 

But,  hark  !  what  word 

Breathes  through  the  twilight  dim  ? 
'  Rest  in  the  Lord, 

Wait  patiently  for  Him  ; 
Return,  0  soul,  and  tltou  shall  have 
A  better  rest  than  in  thy  grave.' 

My  God,  I  come  : 

But  I  was  sorely  shaken  ; 
Art  Thou  my  home  ? 

I  thought  I  was  forsaken : 


24  THE  DESPONDING 

I  know  Thou  art  a  sweeter  rest 

Than  earth's  soft  side,  or  ocean's  breast. 

Yet  this  my  cry  : 

'  I  ask  no  more  for  heaven  ; 
Now  let  me  die, 

For  I  have  vainly  striven  ! ' 
I  had  but  for  that  word  from  Thee 
Renounced  my  immortality. 

Now  I  return, 

Return,  O  Lord,  to  me, 
I  cannot  earn 

That  heaven  I  '11  ask  of  Thee. 
But  with  Thy  peace  amid  the  strife 
I  still  can  live  in  hope  of  life. 

The  careful  day, 

The  feverish  day  is  over : 
Strength  ebbed  away, 
I  lie  down  to  recover ; 
I  sleep  with  Him,  I  shall  be  blest, 
Whose  word  has  brought  my  sorrows  rest. 

T.  T.  Lynch. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  25 


FORSAKEN 

Martyrs,  through  fire  and  steel, 

Have  felt  the  tracking  of  the  steadfast  eye 

Of  faithful  friend  or  kind  disciple  nigh, 

That  strengthened  them ;  beside  the  cruel  wheel 

Hath  woman  waited,  wiping  from  a  face 

Beloved  the  damps  of  anguish  ;  Kings  in  chase, 

Upon  the  mountains  held  from  day  to  day, 

Have  leaned  on  peasants  scorning  to  betray 

The  baffled  hope,  the  discrowned :  nay, 

A  hand  unseen  upon  a  tyrant's  tomb 

Hath  scatter'd  flowers ;  so  strong  above  disgrace, 

Despair  and  death,  rise  human  hearts  ;  of  whom — 

King,  Martyrs,  Malefactors — it  is  said 

That  all  forsook  Him,  all  forsook  and  fled, 

Save  of  one  only  !     Human  love  forsakes, 

Yet  is  not  all  forsaken  !     He  that  takes 

This  drear  pre-eminence  of  woe  alone 

Forsaketh  never,  never  !    He  hath  known 

That  pang  too  well.     O  Saviour,  with  Thine  own, 

Too  little  seemed  it  for  Thy  love  to  share 

All  bitter  draughts ;  so  hast  Thou  bid  this  cup 

Pass  from  our  souls  for  ever,  drinking  up 

Its  wormwood  and  its  gall,  our  lips  to  spare. 

Dora  Greenwell. 


2G  THE  DESPONDING 


THE  RIGHT  MUST  WIN 

Oh,  it  is  hard  to  work  for  God, 

To  rise  and  take  His  part 
Upon  this  battlefield  of  earth, 

And  not  sometimes  lose  heart ! 

He  hides  Himself  so  wondrously, 
As  though  there  were  no  God ; 

He  is  least  seen  when  all  the  powers 
Of  ill  are  most  abroad. 

Or  He  deserts  us  at  the  hour 

The  fight  is  all  but  lost : 
And  seems  to  leave  us  to  ourselves 

Just  when  we  need  Him  most. 

Yes,  there  is  less  to  try  our  faith, 

In  our  mysterious  creed, 
Than  in  the  godless  look  of  earth, 

In  these  our  hours  of  need. 

Ill  masters  good  :  good  seems  to  change 

To  ill  with  greatest  ease  ; 
And,  worst  of  all,  the  good  with  good 

Is  at  cross  purposes. 

The  Church,  the  Sacraments,  the  Faith, 

Their  uphill  journey  take  ; 
Lose  here  what  there  they  gain,  and,  if 

We  lean  upon  them,  break. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  27 

It  is  not  so,  but  so  it  looks ; 

And  we  lose  courage  then  ; 
And  doubts  will  come  if  God  hath  kept 

His  promises  to  men. 

Ah  !  God  is  other  than  we  think  : 

His  ways  are  far  above, 
Far  beyond  reason's  height,  and  reached 

Only  by  childlike  love. 

The  look,  the  fashion  of  God's  ways, 

Love's  lifelong  study  are ; 
She  can  be  bold,  and  guess,  and  act, 

When  Reason  would  not  dare. 

She  has  a  prudence  of  her  own, 

Her  step  is  firm  and  free : 
Yet  there  is  cautious  Science  too 

In  her  simplicity. 

Workman  of  God  !  oh,  lose  not  heart, 

But  learn  what  God  is  like  ; 
And  in  the  darkest  battlefield 

Thou  shalt  know  where  to  strike. 

Thrice  blest  is  he  to  whom  is  given 

The  instinct  that  can  tell 
That  God  is  on  the  field  when  He 

Is  most  invisible. 

Blest  too  is  he  who  can  divine 

Where  real  right  doth  lie, 
And  dares  to  take  the  side  that  seems 

Wrong  to  man's  blindfold  eye. 


28  THE  DESPONDING 

Then  learn  to  scorn  the  praise  of  men, 

And  learn  to  lose  with  God  ; 
For  Jesus  won  the  world  through  shame, 

And  beckons  thee  His  road. 

God's  glory  is  a  wondrous  thing, 

Most  strange  in  all  its  ways  ; 
And,  of  all  things  on  earth,  least  like 

What  men  agree  to  praise. 

As  He  can  endless  glory  weave 
From  what  men  reckon  shame  : 

In  His  own  world  He  is  content 
To  play  a  losing  game. 

Muse  on  His  justice,  downcast  soul ; 

Muse  and  take  better  heart ; 
Back  with  thine  angel  to  the  field, 

And  bravely  do  thy  part. 

God's  justice  is  a  bed,  where  we 

Our  anxious  hearts  may  lay ; 
And,  weary  with  ourselves,  may  sleep 

Our  discontent  away. 

For  right  is  right,  since  God  is  God, 
And  right  the  day  must  win  ; 

To  doubt  would  be  disloyalty, 
To  falter  would  be  sin. 

Frederick    W.  Faber. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  29 


BETTER  THINGS 

Better   to   smell   the  violet  cool    than  to  sip    the 

glowing  wine ; 
Better  to  hark  a  hidden  brook  than  watch  a  diamond 

shine. 

Better    the    love    of    gentle    heart    than    beauty's 

favours  proud ; 
Better  the  rose's  living  seed  than  roses  in  a  crowd. 

Better  to  love  in  loneliness  than  bask  in  love  all  day; 
Better  the  fountain  in  the  heart  than  the  fountain 
by  the  way. 

Better  be  fed  by  mother's  hands  than  eat  alone  at 

will; 
Better    to   trust    in   God    than  say,  My  goods   my 

storehouse  fill. 

Better  to  be  a  little  wise  than  in    knowledge  to 

abound ; 
Better  to  teach  a  child  than  love  to  fill  perfection's 

round. 

Better  sit  at  a  master's  feet  than  thrill  a  listening 

state ; 
Better  suspect  that  thou  art  proud,  than  be  sure 

that  thou  art  great. 


30  THE  DESPONDING 

Better  to  walk  the  realm  unseen  than  watch  the 

hour's  event; 
Better  the  '  Well  done '  at  the  last  than  the  air  with 

shouting  rent. 

Better  to  have  a  quiet  grief  than  a  hurrying  delight ; 
Better  the  twilight  of  the  dawn  than  the  noonday 
burning  bright. 

Better  a  death  when  work  is  done  than  earth's  most 

favoured  birth ; 
Better  a  child  in  God's  great  house,  than  the  king 

of  all  the  earth. 

George  Mac  Donald. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  81 


ALL  SAINTS 

Saints  of  the  early  dawn  of  Christ, 

Saints  of  imperial  Rome, 
Saints  of  the  cloistered  Middle  Age, 

Saints  of  the  modern  home  ; 
Saints  of  the  soft  and  sunny  East, 

Saints  of  the  frozen  seas, 
Saints  of  the  isles  that  wave  their  palms 

In  the  far  Antipodes  ; 
Saints  of  the  marts  and  busy  streets, 

Saints  of  the  squalid  lanes, 
Saints  of  the  silent  solitudes, 

Of  the  prairies  and  the  plains  ; 
Saints  who  were  wafted  to  the  skies 

In  the  torment  robe  of  flame, 
Saints  who  have  graven  on  men's  thoughts 

A  monumental  name  ; 
Come,  from  the  endless  peace  that  spreads 

Over  the  glassy  sea ; 
Come,  from  the  choir  w  ith  harps  of  gold, 

Harping  their  melody  ; 
Come,  from  the  home  of  holiest  hope, 

Under  the  altar-throne ; 
Come,  from  the  depths  where  the  angels  see 

One  Awful  Face  alone  ; 
Come,  from  the  heights  where  the  Mount  of  God 

Burns  like  a  burnished  gem ; 
Come,  from  the  star-paved  terraces 
Of  the  New  Jerusalem  : 


32  THE  DESPONDING 

Come,  for  we  fain  would  hear  the  notes 

Of  your  sweet  celestial  hymn, 
And  we  fain  would  know  what  look  is  theirs 

Who  look  on  the  Seraphim  ; 
Come,  for  our  faith  is  waxing  faint, 

And  the  lamp  of  love  burns  low  ; 
Come  to  these  lower  heavens,  and  shine, 

That  we  may  see  and  know  ; 
Come,  for  the  flash  of  a  moment's  space, 

With  your  snowy  wings  outspread, 
O  God-lit  cloud  of  witnesses, 

Souls  of  the  sainted  dead. 

Edwin  Hatch. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  33 


MY  BIRTHDAY 

Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year  ; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well. 

His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within, — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Out  wearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  pain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain. 

If  dim  the  gold  of  life  is  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own, 

To  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 

The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take 

As  sweet  her  voices  call, 
As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 

As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 


34  THE  DESPONDING 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 
Kind  voices  speak  my  name, 

And  lips  that  find  it  hard  to  praise 
Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won, 
Now  lie  behind  me,  green  and  still, 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 

How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate, 
The  clamour  of  the  throng  ! 

How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 
Flow  into  rhythmic  song  ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  grows 
Too  soft  in  this  still  air, 

Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 
Of  needed  watch  and  prayer. 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed, 
May  founder  in  the  calm  ; 

And  he  who  braved  the  polar  frost 
Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years, 
The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 

Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  ears, 
The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 
And  love  for  hearts  that  pine, 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  35 

Let  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh, 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air  ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear, 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  light, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear. 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need, 

To  soothe,  or  cheer,  or  warn  ; 
And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 

As  up  the  hills  of  morn. 

John  Greenleaf  Whit  tier. 


36  THE  DESPONDING 


LOSSES 


Upon  the  white  sea-sand 

There  sat  a  pilgrim  band, 
Telling  the  losses  that  their  lives  had  known, 

While  evening  waned  away 

From  breezy  cliff  and  bay, 
And  the  strong  tides  went  out  with  weary  moan. 

One  spake,  with  quivering  lip. 

Of  a  fair  freighted  ship, 
With  all  his  household,  to  the  deep  gone  down  ' 

But  one  had  wilder  woe, 

For  a  fair  face,  long  ago 
Lost  in  the  darker  depths  of  a  great  town. 

There  were  who  mourned  their  youth 

With  a  most  loving  ruth, 
For  its  brave  hopes  and  memories  ever  green  ; 

And  one  upon  the  West 

Turned  an  eye  that  would  not  rest 
For  far-off  hills  whereon  its  joy  had  been. 

Some  talked  of  vanished  gold, 

Some  of  proud  honours  told, 
Some  spake  of  friends  that  were  their  trust  no 
more, 

And  one  of  a  green  grave, 

Beside  a  foreign  wave, 
That  made  him  sit  so  lonely  on  the  shore. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  37 

But  when  their  tales  were  done, 

There  spake  among  them  one, 
A  stranger,  seeming  from  all  sorrow  free  : — 

'  Sad  losses  have  ye  met, 

But  mine  is  heavier  yet, 
For  a  believing  heart  hath  gone  from  me.' 

1  Alas  !  '  these  pilgrims  said, 

*  For  the  living  and  the  dead, 
For  fortune's  cruelty,  for  love's  sure  cross, 

For  the  wrecks  of  land  and  sea  ! 

But,  howe'er  it  came  to  thee, 
Thine,  stranger,  is  life's  last  and  heaviest  loss.' 

Frances  Browne. 


38  THE  DESPONDING 

GOING  HOME 

We  said  that  the  days  were  evil, 

We  felt  that  they  might  be  few, 
For  low  was  our  fortune's  level, 

And  heavy  the  winters  grew ; 
But  one  who  had  no  possession 

Looked  up  to  the  azure  dome, 
And  said,  in  his  simple  fashion, 

1  Dear  friends,  we  are  going  home  ! 

1  This  world  is  the  same  dull  market 

That  wearied  its  earliest  sage ; 
The  times  to  the  wise  are  dark  yet, 

But  so  hath  been  many  an  age. 
And  rich  grow  the  toiling  nations, 

And  red  grow  the  battle  spears, 
And  dreary  with  desolations 

Roll  onward  the  laden  years. 

'  What  need  of  the  changeless  story 

Which  time  hath  so  often  told, 
The  spectre  that  follows  glory, 

The  canker  that  comes  with  gold  ? 
That  wisdom,  and  strength,  and  honour 

Must  fade  like  the  far  sea  foam, 
And  Death  is  the  only  winner ; — 

But,  friends,  we  are  going  home ! 

•  The  homes  we  had  hoped  to  rest  in 
Were  open  to  sin  and  strife, 

The  dreams  that  our  youth  was  blest  in 
Were  not  for  the  wear  of  life  : 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS 

For  cue  cm  darken  the  cottage, 

As  well  as  the  palace  hearth. 
And  birthrights  are  sold  for  pottage 
But  never  redeemed  on  earth. 

'The  springs  have  gone  by  in  sorrow, 

The  summers  were  grieved  away, 
And  ever  we  feared  to-morrow, 

And  ever  we  blamed  to-day. 
In  depths  which  the  searcher  sounded, 

On  hills,  which  the  high  heart  clomb, 
Have  trouble  and  toil  abounded, — 

But,  friends,  we  are  going  home ! 

'Our  faith  was  the  bravest  builder, 

But  found  not  a  stone  of  trust : 
Our  love  was  the  fairest  gilder, 

But  lavished  its  wealth  on  dust. 
And  time  hath  the  fabric  shaken 

And  fortune  the  clay  hath  shown. 
For  much  have  they  changed  and  taken, 

But  nothing  that  was  our  own. 

'  The  light  which  to  us  made  baser 

The  paths  which  so  many  choose, 
The  gifts  there  was  found  no  place  for, 

The  riches  we  could  not  use  : 
The  heart  that  when  life  was  wintry 

Found  summer  in  strain  and  tome, 
With  these  to  our  kin  and  country, — 

Dear  friends,  we  are  going  home  ! ' 

France*  Browne. 


40  THE  DESPONDING 


CONSECRATION 

Yet  one  more  step — no  flight 

The  weary  soul  can  bear 
Into  a  whiter  light, 

Into  a  hush  more  rare. 

Take  me,  I  am  all  Thine ; 

Thine  now,  not  seeking  Thee 
Hid  in  the  secret  shrine, 

Lost  in  the  shoreless  sea. 

Grant  to  the  prostrate  soul 

Prostration  new  and  sweet ; 
Make  weak  the  weak,  control 

Thy  creature  :  at  Thy  feet 

Passive  I  lie ;  shine  down, 

Pierce  through  the  will  with  straight. 
Swift  beams  one  after  one ; 

Divide,  disintegrate, 

Free  me  from  self,  resume 

Thy  place,  and  be  Thou  there, 

Yet  also  keep  me.     Come, 

Thou  Saviour  and  Thou  slayer  ! 

Edward  Dowden. 


AND  Till     WXIOUS  41 


WORK   AND  REST 

What  have  I  yet  to  do? 

Day  weareth  on ; 
Flowers,  that  opening  new 
Smiled  through  the  morning's  dew, 

Drop  in  the  sun. 
'Neath  the  noon's  scorching  glare 

Fainting  I  stand : 
Still  is  the  sultry  air, 
Silentness  everywhere 

Through  the  hot  land. 
Yet  must  I  labour  still 

All  the  day  through, 
Striving  with  earnest  will 
Patient  my  place  to  fill, 

My  work  to  do. 
Long  though  my  task  may  be, 

Cometh  the  end ; 
God  'tis  that  helpeth  me, 
His  is  the  work,  and  He 

New  strength  will  lend. 
He  will  direct  my  feet, 

Strengthen  my  hand, 
Give  me  my  portion  meet ; 
Firm  in  His  promise  sweet 

Trusting  I  '11  stand. 


42  THE  DESPONDING 

Up,  then,  to  work  again! 

God's  word  is  given 
That  none  shall  sow  in  vain. 
But  find  the  ripened  grain 

Garnered  in  heaven. 
Longer  the  shadows  fall, 

Night  cometh  on ; 
Low  voices  softly  call : 
f  Come,  here  is  rest  for  all, 

Labour  is  done ! ' 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  43 


FISHERMEN— NOT  OF  GALILEE 

They   have  toiled   all  the   night,   the   long,    weary 
night : 
They  have  toiled  all  the  night,  Lord,  and  taken 
nothing ! 
The  heavens  are  as  brass,  and    all  flesh  seems  as 
grass, 
Death  strikes  with  horror  and  life  with  loathing. 

Walk'st  Thou  by  the  waters,  the  dark,  silent  waters, 
The  fathomless  waters  that  no  line  can  plumb  ? 

Art  Thou  Redeemer,  or  a  mere  schemer, 
Preaching  a  kingdom  that  cannot  come  ? 

Not  a  word  say'st  Thou,  no  wrath  betray'st  Thou, 
Scarcely  delay' st  Thou  their  terrors  to  lull : 

On  the  shore  standing,  mutely  commanding, 

•  Let  down  your  nets  ! ' — and  they  draw  them  up 
—full ! 


Jesus,  Redeemer, — Thou  sole  Redeemer ! 

I,  a  poor  dreamer,  lay  hold  upon  Thee  : 
Thy  will  pursuing,  though  no  end  viewing, 

But  simply  doing  as  Thou  biddest  me. 


44  THE  DESPONDING 

Though  Thee  I  see  not,  either  light  be  not, 

Or  Thou  wilt  free  not  the  scales  from  mine  eyes, 

I  ne'er  gainsay  Thee,  but  only  obey  Thee  : 
Obedience  is  better  than  sacrifice. 

Though  on  my  prison  gleams  no  open  vision, 

Walking  Elysian  by  Galilee's  tide, 
Unseen  I  feel  Thee,  and  death  will  reveal  Thee : 

I  shall  wake  in  Thy  likeness,  satisfied. 

Dinah  M.  Craik, 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  45 

TO  THE  END 

What  do  the  slow  years  chant  ? 
'  Cold  are  lover  and  friend. 
Thou  art  alone,  thou  art  forgot, 
Thou  hast  lived  out  thy  day, 
Thy  life  and  love  are  not, 
Why  wilt  thou  longer  stay  ?  ' 
He  loveth  to  the  end. 

Let  the  sad  years  go  by, 
Homeward  their  footsteps  tend. 
Through  the  poor  prayer  of  failing  faith, 
Through  broken  wail  and  moan, 
Hear  what  the  good  Word  saith  : 
'  For,  having  loved  His  own, 
He  loved  them  to  the  end.' 

His  own  were  in  the  world  ; 

World  that  will  break  or  bend, 

Slaughter  His  own  with  fire  and  flood, 

Strew  ashes  over  flame, 

Drench  earth  with  martyr  blood — 

Ah  !  blessed  be  His  name  ! 

He  loved  them  to  the  end. 

Man  loves  for  a  summer  day, 
Slight  love  is  his  to  lend  ; 
The  trivial  fashion  of  an  hour, 
And  then  the  play  is  done. 
The  fading  of  a  flower  ; 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  won. 
He  loveth  to  the  end. 


46  THE  DESPONDING 

When  storm  and  tempest  rave 

O'er  the  frail  earth  they  rend  ; 

When  the  old  mountains  shake  with  fear, 

And  the  spirit  is  dismayed, 

O  Master  !  let  me  hear, 

All  trembling  and  afraid  : 

'  He  loveth  to  the  end.' 

In  the  lonely  day  of  death, 

When  no  man  may  befriend, 

When  the  dark  angel  standeth  nigh. 

And  the  world  is  past  and  gone, 

Let  some  voice  o'er  me  cry, 

*  And  having  loved  his  own, 

He  loved  them  to  the  end.' 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  47 


THE  LAMB  OF  GOD 

All  in  the  April  evening, 

April  airs  were  abroad  ; 
The  sheep  with  their  little  lambs 

Passed  me  by  on  the  road. 

The  lambs  were  weary,  and  crying 

With  a  weak,  human  cry ; 
I  thought  on  the  Lamb  of  God 

Going  meekly  to  die. 

Up  in  the  blue,  blue  mountains 
Dewy  pastures  were  sweet ; 

Rest  for  the  little  bodies, 
Rest  for  the  little  feet. 

But  for  the  Lamb  of  God, 

Up  on  the  hill-top  green, 
Only  a  Cross  of  shame, 

Two  stark  crosses  between. 

Katharine  Tynan. 


48  THE  DESPONDING 


A  PRAYER 


I  would  not  ask  Thee  that  my  clays 
Should  flow  quite  smoothly  on  and  on  ; 

Lest  I  should  learn  to  love  the  world 
Too  well,  ere  all  my  time  was  done. 

I  would  not  ask  Thee  that  my  work 
Should  never  bring  me  pain  nor  fear ; 

Lest  I  should  learn  to  work  alone, 
And  never  wish  Thy  presence  near. 

I  would  not  ask  Thee  that  my  friends 
Should  always  kind  and  constant  be  ; 

Lest  I  should  learn  to  lay  my  faith 
In  them  alone,  and  not  in  Thee. 

But  I  would  ask  Thee  still  to  give, 

By  night  my  sleep — by  day  my  bread, 

And  that  the  counsel  of  Thy  Word 

Should  shine  and  show  the  path  to  tread. 

And  I  would  ask  a  humble  heart, 
A  changeless  will  to  work  and  wake, 

A  firm  faith  in  Thy  Providence, 

The  rest — 'tis  Thine  to  give  or  take. 

Alfred  Norris. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  49 


CHRISTIAN  PATIENCE 

I  am  sitting  on  the  steps  of  Thy  pavilion  ; 

I  am  waiting  for  the  coming  of  the  clay, 
But  I  know  I  am  but  one  amongst  the  million, 

And  I  shall  not  murmur  at  the  hour's  delay. 
I  know  that  there  are  others  in  December 

That  are  waiting  at  the  gates  as  well  as  I, 
And  ray  burden  is  forgot  when  I  remember 

The  sound  of  the  million's  cry. 

There  is  not  in  the  pages  of  earth's  story 

A  beauty  that  the  laurel  less  has  crowned 
Than  the  patience  that  has  waited  for  Thy  glory 

When  the  winter  snows  have  covered    all    the 
ground ; 
The  meekness  that,  with  folded  hands  abiding, 

Has  trusted  in  the  love  it  cannot  see, 
And  kept  amid  the  chill  its  lips  unhiding, 

Has  a  palm  from  none  but  Thee. 

How  little  do  we  deem  that  in  the  attic, 

Where  the  invalid  repines  not  in  her  pain, 
There  is  seen  by  Thee  a  glory  more  ecstatic 

Than  the  triumph  leading  captives  in  its  train. 
There  is  seen  by  Thee  a  lustre  more  resplendent 

In  the  patience  that  refuses  to  revile, 
Than  when  victor  marches   home  with  kings  de- 
pendent 

To  bask  in  a  nation's  smile. 


.50  THE  DESPONDING 

Thou  hast  precious  gems  to  count   from  lane  and 
alley, 
When  Thou  shalt  gather  jewels  from  the  dust; 
Thou  hast  precious  flowers  to  cull  from  nook  and 
valley, 
When  Thou  shalt    blend    the   garlands    in   Thy 
trust ; 
Thou  hast  precious  hearts  to  glean  from  fields  of 
anguish, 
When  Thou  shalt  raise  the  army  of  Thy  Son, 
And  the  leaders  shall  be  those  that  did  not  languish 
Till  the  march  of  the  day  was  done. 

George  Matheson. 


AND  THE  ANXIOUS  51 


WOULD  YOU  BE  YOUNG  AGAIN? 

Would  you  be  young  again  ? 

So  would  not  I, 
One  tear  to  memory  giv'n, 

Onward  I  'd  hie. 
Life's  dark  flood  forded  o'er, 
All  but  at  rest  on  shore, 
Say,  would  you  plunge  once  more 

With  home  so  nigh  ? 

If  you  might,  would  you  now 

Retrace  your  way  ? 
Wander  through  many  wilds, 

Faint  and  astray  ? 
Night's  gloomy  watches  fled, 
Morning  all  beaming  red, 
Hope's  smiles  around  us  shed  ; 

H  eaven  ward — away. 

Where  are  they  gone,  O  you, 

My  best  delight? 
Dear  and  more  dear,  though  now 

Hidden  from  sight. 
Where  they  rejoice  to  be, 
There  is  the  land  for  me, 
Fly,  time,  fly  speedily, 

Come  life  and  light. 

Baroness  Nairnc. 


II 

THE    SICK    AND   THE    DYING 


Up  and  away,  call  the  Angels  to  us, 
Come  to  our  home  where  no  foes  pursue  us, 
And  no  tears  bedew  us  ; 

Where  that  which  riseth  sets  again  never, 
Where  that  which  springeth  flows  in  a  river 
For  ever  and  ever  ; 

Where  harvest  justifies  labour  of  sowing, 
Where  that  which  budded  comes  to  the  blowing 
Sweet  beyond  your  knowing. 


54 


A  REVERIE  IN  SICKNESS 

I  fancy  I  hear  a  whisper, 
As  of  leaves  in  a  gentle  air ; 
Is  it  wrong,  I  wonder,  to  fancy 
It  may  be  the  tree  up  there  ? 
The  tree  that  heals  the  nations, 
Growing  amidst  the  street, 
And  dropping  for  who  will  gather 
Its  apples  at  their  feet. 

I  fancy  I  hear  a  rushing, 

As  of  waters  down  a  slope  ; 

Is  it  wrong,  I  wonder,  to  fancy 

It  may  be  the  river  of  hope  ? 

The  river  of  crystal  waters, 

That  flows  from  the  very  throne, 

And  runs  through  the  street  of  the  city 

With  a  softly  jubilant  tone. 

I  fancy  a  twilight  round  me, 
And  a  wandering  of  the  breeze, 
With  a  hush  in  that  high  city, 
And  a  going  in  the  trees. 


56  THE  SICK 

But  I  know  there  will  be  no  night  there, 
No  coming  and  going  day ; 
For  the  holy  face  of  the  Father 
Will  be  perfect  light  alway. 

I  could  do  without  the  darkness. 

And  better  without  the  sun ; 

But  oh  !  I  should  like  a  twilight, 

After  the  day  was  done  ! 

Would  He  lay  His  hand  on  His  forehead, 

On  His  hair  as  white  as  wool, 

And  shine  one  hour  through  His  fingers 

Till  the  shadow  had  made  me  cool. 

But  the  thought  is  very  foolish ; 

If  that  face  I  did  but  see, 

All  else  would  be  all  forgotten — 

River,  and  twilight,  and  tree ; 

I  should  seek,  I  should  care  for  nothing 

Beholding  His  countenance ; 

And  fear  only  to  lose  one  glimmer 

By  one  single  sideway  glance. 

'Tis  again  but  a  foolish  fancy, 
To  picture  the  countenance  so 
Which  is  shining  in  all  our  spirits, 
Making  them  white  as  snow. 
Come  to  me,  shine  in  me,  Master, 
And  I  care  not  for  river  or  tree, 
Care  for  no  sorrow  or  crying, 
If  only  Thou  shine  in  me. 


AND  THE  DYING  .07 

I  would  lie  on  my  bed  for  ages, 
Looking  out  on  the  dusty  street, 
Where  whisper  nor  leaves,  nor  water*, 
Nor  anything  cool  and  sweet, 
At  my  heart  this  ghastly  fainting, 
And  this  burning  in  my  blood, 
If  only  I  knew  Thou  wast  with  me, 
Wast  with  me  and  making  me  good. 

George  Mac  Donald. 


58  THE  SICK 


PASSING  AWAY. 

Passing  away,  saith  the  world,  passing  away  ; 
Chances,  beauty  and  youth  sapped  day  by  day ; 
Thy  life  never  continue th  in  one  stay, 
Is  the  eye  waxen  dim,  is  the  dark  hair  changing  to 

grey, 
That  hath  won  neither  laurel  nor  bay  ! 
I  shall  clothe  myself  in  Spring  and  bud  in  May ! 
Thou,  root-stricken,  shalt  not  rebuild  thy  decay, 
On  my  bosom  for  aye  : 
Then  I  answered :  Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  soul,  passing  away  ; 

With  its  burden  of  fear  and  hope,  of  labour  and  play, 

Hearken  what  the  past  doth  witness  and  say ! 

Rust  in  thy  gold,  a  moth  is  in  thine  array, 

A  canker  is  in  thy  bud,  thy  leaf  must  decay. 

At  midnight,  at  cockcrow,  at  morning,  one  certain 

day, 
Lo,  the  Bridegroom  shall  come  and  shall  not  delay : 
Watch  thou  and  pray  : 
Then  I  answered  :  Yea. 

Passing  away,  saith  my  God,  passing  away ; 
Winter  passeth  after  the  long  delay  ; 


AND  THE  DYING  59 

New  grapes  on   the  vine,  new  figs  on  the  tender 

spray, 
Turtle  calleth  turtle  in  Heaven's  May. 
Though    I   tarry,  wait  for  me,  trust  me,  watch  and 

pray, 
Arise,  come  away,  night  is  passed  and  lo  it  is  day, 
My  love,  my  sister,  my  spouse,  thou  shalt  hear  me 

^■iv  : 
Then  I  answered  :   Yea. 

Christina  G\  Kossetti. 


60  THE  SICK 


THE  FLOWER  OF  THE  FLOCK 

'This,  I  am  sure,  is  the  flower  of  the  flock  ! 

She  stands  like  a  rock  in  her  lilac  frock  ; 

She  speaks  as  clear  as  a  cuckoo  clock  ; 

The  little  dear  is  sweet  to  hear 

And  sweet  to  see — the  flower  is  she — 

The  flower  of  the  flock  in  her  dear  little  shoes  ! 

Now,  then,  hearken  to  Heavenly  Muse  ! 
First,  the  metaphor  we  excuse, 
Wishing  it  better.     For  what  you  say — 
(Thank  Heaven  !  the  children  are  all  away) — 
That  may  be  rather  more  hard  to  fit. 
And  Heavenly  Muse  objects  to  it. 
You  are  not  sage  ;  your  patronage 

Vexes  the  tender  household  heart, 
And  ruffles  depths  you  cannot  gauge. 

Why  do  you  place  this  child  apart  ? — 
They  all  are  flowers  for  different  hours  : 

Pray,  mould  your  praise  with  a  kindlier  art. 

Ah,  what  a  garden,  in  need  of  pardon, 

From  all  but  parents  whose  hearts  are  warrants, - 

Ah,  what  a  garden — pitying  powers  ! — 

Is  many  a  garden  of  parents'  flowers  ! 


AND  THE  DYING  <;i 

One  of  the  flowers  has  a  sad  club-foot, 
And  one  is  blind,  and  one  is  mute ; 
One  poor  flower  has  a  broken  spine  ; 
One  is  as  wicked  as  Devil's  wine  ; 
One  was  born  with  but  half  his  wits, 
And  one  is  scarred,  and  one  has  fits ! — 
Why,  these  are  pretty  flowers  indeed 
For  so  much  love  and  gardening  heed — 
A  jest  ?    Yet  if  you  try  to  laugh, 
You  find  you  cannot  do  it  half ! 
No  :  all  through  the  long  human  years 
Such  gardens  are,  and  it  appears 
As  if  the  flowers  were  bright  with  tears, 
That  catch  the  sunshine,  and  diffuse 
A  thousand  iridescent  hues. 

No:  do  not  smile  at  Heavenly  Muse, 

But  mind  her.     Who  are  you  to  choose 

This  child  or  that  for  the  flower  of  the  flock  ? 

(The  metaphor  we  do  excuse.) 

It  is  not  a  step,  or  a  voice,  or  a  frock, 

Or  a  sash,  or  even  a  pair  of  shoes 

(Not  to  speak  of  wit  or  beauty, 

Gentleness,  or  zeal  in  duty) 

That  makes  the  choice  flower  in  the  garden 

(Which  seems  to  stand  in  need  of  pardon) — 

The  flower  that  fairest,  sweetest  blows. 

What  is  the  secret,  then  ?     God  knows  ; 

And  when  Love  smiles,  and  says,  '  My  rose  ! ' 

To  what  might  else  go  derelict, 

Who  has  the  heart  to  contradict  ? 


62  THE  SICK 

God  makes  the  love  the  need  to  suit ; 
But  for  the  secret,  Love  is  mute  : 
She  cherishes  the  thing  forlorn — 

She  says,  '  This  mortal  is  but  night ! ' 
She  weeps,  '  Would  God  that  it  were  morn, — 

My  flower  will  bloom  when  it  is  light ! ' 
The  tempered  wind  around  them  blows 
The  secret  that  God  only  knows, 
And  still  Love  whispers,  '  Ah,  my  rose  ! ' 

William  Brighty  Rands. 


AM)  THK  HYING  63 


WISHES  ABOUT  DEATH 

I  wish  to  have  no  wishes  left, 

But  to  leave  all  to  Thee ; 
And  yet  I  wish  that  Thou  shouldst  will 

Things  that  I  wish  should  be. 

And  these  two  wills  I  feel  within 
When  on  my  death  I  muse ; 

But,  Lord  !  I  have  a  death  to  die, 
And  not  a  death  to  choose. 

Why  should  I  choose  ?  for  in  Thy  love, 

Most  surely  I  descry 
A  gentler  death  than  I  myself 

Should  dare  to  ask  to  die. 

But  Thou  wilt  not  disdain  to  hear 
What  these  few  wishes  are, 

Which  I  abandon  to  Thy  love, 
And  to  Thy  wiser  care. 

Triumphant  death  I  would  not  ask, 

Rather  would  deprecate ; 
For  dying  souls  deceive  themselves 

Soonest  when  most  elate. 

All  graces  I  would  crave  to  have, 

Calmly  absorbed  in  one — 
A  perfect  sorrow  for  my  sins, 

And  duties  left  undone. 


64  THE  SICK 

I  would  the  light  of  reason,  Lord, 

Up  to  the  last  might  shine, 
That  my  own  hands  might  hold  my  soul 

Until  it  passed  to  Thine. 

And  I  would  pass  in  silence,  Lord, 

No  brave  words  on  my  lips, 
Lest  pride  should  cloud  my  soul,  and  I 

Should  die  in  the  eclipse. 

But  when  and  where,  and  by  what  pain, — 

All  this  is  one  to  me ; 
I  only  long  for  such  a  death 

As  most  shall  honour  Thee. 

Long  life  dismays  me,  by  the  sense 
Of  my  own  weakness  scared  ; 

And  by  Thy  grace  a  sudden  death 
Need  not  be  unprepared. 

One  wish  is  hard  to  be  unwished, — 

That  I  at  last  might  die 
Of  grief,  for  having  wronged  with  sin 

Thy  spotless  Majesty. 

Frederick  W.  Faber. 


AND  THE  DYING  05 


'HAVING  A  DESIRE  TO  DEPART' 

Eves  she  had  in  whose  dark  lustre, 

Slumbered  wild  and  mystic  beams ; 
And  a  brow  of  polished  marble, 

Pale  abode  of  gorgeous  dreams. 
Dreams  that  caught  the  hues  and  splendours, 

Which  the  radiant  future  shows, 
For  the  past  was  nought  but  anguish, 

And  a  sepulchre  of  woes  ! 
Therefore  from  its  scenes  and  sorrows, 

All  her  heart  and  soul  were  riven, 
And  her  thoughts  kept  ever  wandering 

With  the  angels  up  to  heaven. 

When  they  told  her  of  the  pleasures, 

Which  the  future  had  in  store, 
When  her  sorrows  would  have  faded, 

And  her  anguish  would  be  o'er ; 
Told  her  of  her  wealth  and  beauty, 

And  the  triumphs  in  her  train  ; 
Told  her  of  the  many  others 

Who  would  sigh  for  her  again, 
She  but  caught  one-half  their  meaning, 

While  the  rest  afar  was  driven, 
•  Yes,'  she  murmur' d,  '  they  are  happy, 

They,  I  mean,  who  dwell  in  heaven  ! ' 
E 


G6  THE  SICK 

When  they  wish'd  once  more  to  see  her, 

Mingling  with  the  bright  and  fair, 
When  they  told  her  of  the  splendour, 

And  the  rank  that  would  be  there ; 
Told  her  that  amid  the  glitter 

Of  that  brilliant  living  sea, 
There  were  none  so  sought  and  sighed  for, 

None  so  beautiful  as  she  ; 
Still  she  heeded  not  the  flattery, 

Heard  but  half  the  utterance  given  ; 
'  Yes/  she  answer  d,  '  there  are  bright  ones, 

Many  too  I  know  in  heaven.' 

When  they  spoke  of  sunlight  glories, 

Summer  days  and  moonlit  hours  ; 
Told  her  of  the  spreading  woodland, 

With  its  treasury  of  flowers  ; 
Clustering  fruits,  and  vales  and  mountains, 

Flower-banks  mirror' d  in  clear  springs, 
Winds  whose  music  ever  mingled 

With  the  hum  of  glancing  wings, 
Scenes  of  earthly  bliss  and  beauty 

Far  from  all  her  thought  were  driven, 
And  she  fancied  that  they  told  her, 

Of  the  happiness  of  heaven. 

For  one  master-pang  had  broken 
The  sweet  spell  of  her  young  life, 

And  henceforth  its  calm  and  sunshine 
Were  as  tasteless  as  its  strife ; 


AND  THE  DYING  67 

Henceforth  all  its  gloom  and  grandeur, 

All  the  music  of  its  streams, 
All  its  thousand  pealing  voices, 

Spoke  the  language  of  her  dreams  : 
Dreams  that  wander' d  on  like  orphans, 

From  all  earthly  solace  driven, 
Searching  for  their  great  Protector, 

And  the  palace  gates  of  heaven. 

John  Stanyan  Bigg. 


THE  SICK 


IN  THE  JUNE  TWILIGHT 

In  the  June  twilight,  in  the  soft  grey  twilight, 
The  yellow  sun-glow  trembling  through  the  rainy 

eve, 
As  my  love  lay  quiet  came  the  solemn  fiat, 
1  All  these  things  for  ever,  for  ever,  thou  must  leave.' 

My  love  she  sank  down  quivering,  like  a  pine  in 
tempest  shivering, 

*  I  have  had  so  little  happiness  yet  beneath  the  sun 

I  have  called  the  shadow  sunshine,  and  the  merest 
frosty  moonshine 

I  have,  weeping,  blessed  the  Lord  for,  as  if  day- 
light had  begun. 

'  Till  He  sent  a  sudden  angel,  with  a  glorious  sweet 

evangel, 
Who  turned  all  my  tears  to  pearl  gems,  and,  crowned 

me,  —  so  little  worth, 
Me  !  and  through  the  rainy  even  changed  this  poor 

earth  into  heaven, 
Or,   by  wondrous  revelation  brought    the  heavens 

down  to  earth. 

'  O  the  strangeness  of  the  feeling !  O  the  infinite 

revealing, 
To  think  how  God  must  love  me,  to  have  made  me 

so  content, 


AND  THE  DYING  69 

Though    I   would    have  served    Him    humbly,   and 

patiently  and  dumbly, 
Without  any  angel  standing  in  the  pathway  that  I 

went.' 

In  the  June  twilight — in  the  lessening  twilight, 
My  love  cried  from  my  bosom  an  exceeding  bitter 

cry, 
1  Lord,  wait  a  little  longer,  until  my  soul  is  stronger, 
Wait  till  Thou  hast  taught  me  to  be  content  to  die.' 

Then  the  tender  face,  all  woman,  took  a  glory  super- 
human, 

And   she  seemed  to  watch   for  something  or   see 
some  I  could  not  see, 

From  my  arms  she  rose  full  statured,  all  transfigured, 
queenly  featured, 

1  As  Thy  will  is  done  in  heaven,  so  on  earth  still  let 
it  be.' 

*  *  *  *  * 

I  go  lonely,  I  go  lonely,  and  I  feel  that  earth  is  only 
The  vestibule  of  palaces  whose  courts  we  never  win  ; 
Yet  I   see  my  palace  shining,  where  my  love  sits 

amaranths  twining, 
And  I  know  the  gates  stand  open,  and  I  shall  enter 

in. 

Dinah  M.  Craik. 


70  THE  SICK 


A  SONG  OF  THE  RIVER 

Many  waters  go  softly  dreaming 

On  to  the  sea  ; 
But  the  River  of  Death  floweth  softest 

By  tower  and  tree. 

By  smiling  village  and  meadow, 

In  the  morning  light  : 
By  palace  gate  and  by  cottage 

In  the  dim  hush  of  night. 

No  sigh  when  the  wistful  moonlight 

Seeks  that  cold  breast — 
No  smile  when  the  gold  of  Sunset 

Burns  in  the  west — 

No  rush  of  the  mournful  waters 

Breaks  on  the  ear, 
To  tell  us  when  life  is  strongest 

That  death  flows  near. 

But  through  throbbing  hearts  of  cities, 

In  the  heat  of  the  day, 
The  cool  dark  River  passeth, 

On  its  silent  way. 

And  where  the  Good  Shepherd  leadeth 

To  pastures  green, 
Ever  the  dark  c  still  waters ' 

Of  death  are  seen. 


AND  THE  DYING  71 

This  is  the  River  that  '  follows ' 

Where'er  we  go ; 
No  sand  so  dry  and  thirsty 

But  these  strange  waters  flow. 

To  fainting  men  in  the  desert 

No  living  streams  appear  : 
But  the  waters  of  Death  rise  softly, 

Solemn  and  clear. 

And  down  to  the  silent  River, 

By  night  and  day, 
Old  men  and  maidens  wander  ever, 

And  pass  away. 

Some  go  with  the  voice  of  thanksgiving 

And  melody, 
And  some  in  silence  at  midnight, 

When  none  are  by. 

Some  go  where  the  smiling  meadows 

Sweep  to  the  River-side, 
And  the  pale  sweet  flowers  are  blowing 

Close  to  the  sclemn  tide. 

And  some  are  summoned  at  midnight, 

To  cross  in  haste, 
Where  the  banks  are  steep  and  frowning, 

And  the  land  lies  waste. 

No  tender  smiling  of  sunset, 

No  pale  death-flowers 
Which  can  make  the  banks  of  the  River  sweet 

In  dying  hours ; 


72  THE  SICK 

Only  a  sudden  leaping 

From  the  frowning  height, 
To  the  cold  dark  breast  of  the  River — 

And  then  the  silence  of  night. 

Many  waters  go  softly  dreaming 

On  to  the  sea, 
But  the  River  of  Death  floweth  softest 

To  thee  and  me. 

We  have  trod  the  sands  of  the  desert 

Under  a  burning  sun  ; 
Oh,  sweet  will  the  touch  of  the  waters  be 

To  feet  whose  journey  is  done  ! 

Unto  Him  whose  love  has  washed  us 

Whiter  than  snow, 
We  shall  pass  through  the  shallow  River 

With  hearts  aglow. 

For  the  Lord's  voice  on  the  Waters 

Lingereth  sweet : 
'  He  that  is  washed  needeth  only 

To  wash  his  feet.' 

B.  M. 


AND  THE  DYING 


WIND  ME  A  SUMMER  CROWN/  SHE  SAID 

'  Wind  me  a  Summer  Crown/  she  said, 

'  And  set  it  on  my  brows ; 
For  I  must  go  while  I  am  young 

Home  to  my  Father's  house. 

And  make  me  ready  for  the  day, 

And  let  me  not  be  stayed ; 
I  would  not  linger  on  the  way 

As  if  I  was  afraid. 

O  !  will  the  golden  courts  of  heaven, 
When  I  have  paced  them  o'er, 

Be  lovely  as  my  lily  walks, 
WTiich  I  must  see  no  more  ? 

And  will  the  seraph  hymns  and  harps, 
When  they  have  filled  my  ear, 

Be  tender  as  my  mother's  voice 
Which  I  must  never  hear  ? ' 

Your  mother's  tones  shall  reach  you  still, 

Even  sweeter  than  they  were, 
And  the  false  love  that  broke  your  heart 

Shall  be  forgotten  there. 

And  not  of  star  or  flower  is  born 

The  beauty  of  that  shore  : 
There  is  a  Face  which  you  shall  see, 

And  wish  for  nothing  more. 

Menella  Bute  Smedleif. 


74  THE  SICK 


PARADISE 

It  's,  oh,  in  Paradise  that  I  fain  would  be, 

Away  from  care  and  weariness,  and  all  beside  : 

Earth  is  too  full  of  loss  with  its  dividing  sea, 
But  Paradise  upbuilds  the  bower  for  the  bride. 

Where  flowers  are  yet  in  bud,  while  the  boughs  are 
green, 
I  would  get  quit  of  earth,  and   get  robed   for 
heaven ; 
Putting  on  my  raiment  white  within  the  screen, 
Putting  on  my  crown   of  gold  whose  gems  are 
seven. 

Fair  is  the  fourfold  river  that  maketh  no  moan, 
Fair  are  the  trees,  fruit-bearing,  of  the  wood, 

Fair  are  the  gold  and  bdellium  and  the  onyx  stone, 
And  I  know  the  gold  of  that  land  is  good. 

O  my  love,  my  dove,  lift  up  your  eyes 

Toward  the  eastern  gate  like  an  opening  rose 

You  and  I  who  parted  will  meet  in  Paradise, 
Pass  within  and  sing  when  the  gates  unclose. 

This  life  is  but  the  passage  of  a  day, 
This  life  is  but  a  pang  and  all  is  over, 

But  in  the  life  to  come  which  fades  not  away 
Every  love  shall  abide  and  every  lover. 


AND  THE  DYING  75 

He  who  wore  out  pleasure  and  mastered  all  lore, 
Solomon,  wrote  ■  Vanity  of  vanities '  ; 

Down  to  death,  of  all  that  went  before, 
In  his  mighty  long  life  the  record  is  this. 

With  loves  by  the  hundred,  wealth  beyond  measure, 
Is  this  he  who  wrote  'Vanity  of  vanities  !' 

Yea,  '  Vanity  of  vanities/  he  saith  of  pleasure, 
And  of  all  he  learned  set  his  seal  to  this. 

Yet  we  love  and  faint  not,  for  our  love  is  one, 
And  we  hope  and  flag  not,  for  our  hope  is  sure, 

Although  there  be  nothing  new  beneath  the  sun, 
And  no  help  for  life,  and  for  death  no  cure. 

The  road  to  death  is  life,  the  gate  of  life  is  death, 
We  who  wake  shall  sleep,  we  shall  wax  who  wane  ; 

Let  us  not  vex  our  souls  for  stoppage  of  a  breath, 
The  fall  of  a  river  that  turneth  not  again. 

Be  the  road  short  and  be  the  gate  near, — 
Shall  a  short  road  tire,  a  strait  gate  appal  ? 

The  loves  that  meet  in  Paradise  shall  cast  out  fear 
And  Paradise  hath  room  for  you,  and  me,  and  all 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


76  THE  SICK 


DOMINUS  ILLUMINATIO  MEA 

In  the  hour  of  death,  after  this  life's  whim, 
When  the  heart  beats  low,  and  the  eyes  grow  dim, 
And  pain  has  exhausted  every  limb — 

The  lover  of  the  Lord  shall  trust  in  Him. 

When  the  will  has  forgotten  the  lifelong  aim, 
And  the  mind  can  only  disgrace  its  fame, 
And  a  man  is  uncertain  of  his  own  name — 

The  power  of  the  Lord  shall  fill  this  frame. 

When  the  last  sigh  is  heaved,  and  the  last  tear  shed, 
And  the  coffin  is  waiting  beside  the  bed, 
And  the  widow  and  child  forsake  the  dead — 
The  angel  of  the  Lord  shall  lift  this  head. 

For  even  the  purest  delight  may  pall, 
The  power  must  fail,  and  the  pride  must  fall, 
And  the  love  of  the  dearest  friends  grow  small — 
But  the  glory  of  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

•     R.  D.  B. 


AND  THE  DYING  77 


'1  WILL  LIFT  UP  MINE  EVES 
INTO  THE  HILLS' 

I  am  pale  with  sick  desire, 

For  my  heart  is  far  away 

From  this  world's  fitful  fire 

And  this  world's  waning  day  ; 

In  a  dream  it  overleaps 

A  world  of  tedious  ills 

To  where  the  sunshine  sleeps 

On  the  everlasting  hills. 

Say  the  saints  :  There  angels  ease  us 

Glorified  and  white. 

They  say  :  We  rest  in  Jesus 

Where  is  not  day  or  night. 

My  soul  saith  :  I  have  sought 
For  a  home  that  is  not  gained, 
I  have  spent  yet  nothing  bought, 
Have  laboured  but  not  attained  ; 
My  pride  strove  to  mount  and  grow, 
And  hath  but  dwindled  down  ; 
My  love  sought  love,  and  lo  ! 
Hath  not  attained  its  crown. 
Say  the  saints  :  Fresh  souls  increa 
None  languish  or  recede. 
They  say  :  We  love  our  Jesus, 
And  He  loves  us  in  deed. 


78  THE  SICK 

I  cannot  rise  above, 

I  cannot  rest  beneath. 

I  cannot  find  out  love, 

Or  escape  from  death. 

Dear  hopes  and  joys  gone  by 

Still  mock  me  with  a  name  ; 

My  best  beloved  die, 

And  I  cannot  die  with  them. 

Say  the  saints  :  No  deaths  decrease  us 

Where  our  rest  is  glorious. 

They  say  :  We  live  in  Jesus, 

Who  once  died  for  us. 

O  my  soul,  she  beats  her  wings 

And  pants  to  fly  away 

Up  to  immortal  things 

In  the  heavenly  day. 

Yet  she  flags  and  almost  faints  ; 

Can  such  be  meant  for  me  ? 

Come  and  see,  say  the  saints. 

Saith  Jesus,  Come  and  see. 

Say  the  saints  :  His  pleasures  please  us 

Before  God  and  the  Lamb. 

Come  and  taste  my  sweets,  saith  Jesus ; 

Be  with  me  where  I  am. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


AND  THE  DYING  7 9 


•  COMPLETE  IN  HIM  * 

Dear  Lord,  it  is  better  that  I 

Should  go  through  the  world  with  one  eye. 

If  Thou,  Light  and  Guide,  be  but  nigh. 

It  is  better,  O  Saviour  divine, 

To  lose  this  right  hand  of  mine, 

If  Thou  hold  but  the  other  in  Thine. 

Thou  only  canst  make  me  complete  \ 
And  to  limp  by  Thy  side  were  more  sweet 
Than  walking  alone  on  both  feet. 

Joseph  A.  Torrey. 


80  THE  SICK 


THROUGH  THE  GATES 

Good-bye,  ah,  good-bye ;  you  are  going 

To  enter  the  Silent  Land, 
And  your  life  is  vanishing  from  me, 

Though  fast  I  hold  your  hand. 
Your  head  on  my  bosom  will  lie,  love, 

Clasp' d  in  a  close  embrace, 
But  where  will  your  soul  be  wandering, 

When  your  breath  fails  off  my  face  ? 

The  Silent  Land  !     Hark,  how  music 

Thrills  through  the  sweeten' d  air  ! 
It  is  surely  sounding  from  heaven, 

Unknown  to  us  otherwhere. 
A  far-off  journey  !  kind  angels 

Stand  reaching  to  me  their  hand  : 
It  is  but  a  step  and  a  step-lift 

From  the  earth  on  which  you  stand. 

Is  the  parting,  then,  so  complete,  love  ? 

Perhaps  you  may  come  again, 
And  give  me  some  word  or  token 

That  you,  though  changed,  are  the  same 
A  whisper  in  evening  stillness, 

A  vision  in  broad,  bright  day, 
A  touch  as  of  long-trail' d  garments, 

Soft-touching  and  floating  away. 


AND  THE  DYING  81 

I  know  not.     But  bid  me  good-bye  now, 

As  going  at  night  to  my  room, 
If  I  may  I  will  open  the  door,  love, 

And  call  to  you  out  of  the  gloom. 
If  I  may  not,  the  Lord  is  our  keeper, 

And  we  are  still  in  His  care  ; 
You  on  earth,  I  in  heaven — both  guarded, 

Both  safe,  till  you  follow  me  there. 

Alfred  Norris. 


82  THE  SICK 


A  GOOD  CONFESSION 

[Suggested  by  hearing  of  a  tombstone  in  a  country  church- 
yard in  Wales,  on  which  was  inscribed  the  name  of  a  man  who 
had  lived  to  some  years  above  eighty,  yet  was  said  to  be  (allud- 
ing to  his  conversion  to  Christ)  only  '  four  years  old  when  he 
died.'] 

If  you  ask  me  how  long  I  have  been  in  the  world, 

I  'm  old,  I  'm  very  old ; 
If  you  ask  me  how  many  years  I  've  lived,  it  '11  very 

soon  be  told, 
Past  eighty  years  of  age,  yet  only  four  years  old  ! 

Eighty  years  and  more  astray  upon  the  mountains 

high, 
In  a  land  that 's  full  of  pits  and  snares,  and  that 's 

desolate  and  dry, 
I  've  oft  been  weary,  oft  been  cold,  and  oft  been  like 

to  die ; 

And  there  I  'd  have  wandered,  wandered  still,  as  I 

wandered  many  a  day ; 
I  'd  lose  the  track-marks  of  the  flock,  I  'd  got  so  far 

away, 
If  Jesus  had  not  met  me,  that  seeks  for  them  that 

stray. 


AND  THE  DYING  83 

The  Shepherd  took  me  in  His  arms,  for  you  see  I  'm 

getting  old, 
And  my  strength  is,  as  the  Psalmist  says,  gone  like 

a  tale  that 's  told  ; 
'  And  other  sheep,'  the  Shepherd  says,  '  I  have,  and 

to  the  fold 


'  Them  also  must  I  bring/  for  He  has  many  little 

lambs, 
All  milk-white,  mild,  and  innocent,  a-skijiping  by 

their  dams  ; 
And  many  sheep  that  have  been  driven  along  the 

dusty  roads, 
Hard  driven  along  by  dogs  and  men,  and  pricked 

with  iron  goads, 

And  marked  with  iron  brands  to  show  they  've  oft 

been  bought  and  sold  ; 
Brown,  ragged  sheep,  with  fleeces  torn,  and  faces 

wizened  and  old  ; 


And  if  you  ask  me  which  of  these  I  think  He  loves 

the  best — 
The  lambs  or  sheep — I  cannot  say  ;  He  '11  love  me 

with  the  rest. 
For  '  Feed  My  little  lambs/  He  said,  when  He  gave 

His  flock  to  keep 
To  Peter  once,  and  twice  He  said  to  Peter,  '  Feed 

My  sheep.' 


84  THE  SICK 

He 's  got  a  garden  full  of  flowers,  all  planted  row  by 

row, 
Roses   and   pinks   and  mignonette    a-coming    into 

blow, 
And  many  little  pleasant  herbs  that  near  each  other 

grow ; 
Balm   o'   Gilead,    mint   and  thyme,   and  sage  and 

marjorie, 
And  many  a  dry  old  stick   and  stalk,  and  many  a 

withered  tree, 
That 's  neither  good  for  use  nor  show,  and  these  are 

folks  like  me ; 

And  many  such-like  ones  He's  got,  but  scripture 

sayeth,  (  Lo ! 
He  taketh  such  and  maketh  them  to  flourish  and  to 

grow/ 
For  He's  not  a  man  that  He  should  judge  by  seeing 

of  His  eyes, 
He's  not  a  son  of  man  that  He  should  any  one 

despise, 
He 's  God  Himself,  and  far  too  kind  for  that,  and 

far  too  wise. 

He's   God   Himself,  come  down  from  Heaven  to 

raise  us  when  we  fall ; 
He's  come  to  heal  us  when  we're  sick,  to  hear  us 

when  we  call  ; 
If  He  hadn't  come  to  do  us  good,   He  wouldn't 

have  come  at  all. 


AND  THE  DYING  85 

And  '  Ask/  He  says,  'and  I  will  give,  and  knock,  and 

I  to  you 
Will  open/  Jesus  says  to  us,  and  I  know  that  it  is 

true  : 
It  isn't  Him  would  say  the  things  He  doesn't  mean 

to  do. 

He  didn't  come  to  judge  the  world,  He  didn't  come 

to  blame, 
He  didn't  only  come  to  seek,  it  was  to  save  He 

came. 
And  when  we  call  Him  Saviour,  then  we  call  Him 

by  His  name. 

He  sought  for  me  when  I  was  lost,  He  brought  me 

to  His  fold ; 
He  doesn't  look  for  much  from  me,  for  He  doesn't 

need  be  told 
I  'm  past  eighty  years  of  age,  and  yet  but  four  years 

old. 

Dora  Green  well. 


86  THE  SICK 


A  BALLAD  OF  TREES  AND  THE  MASTER 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

Clean  forspent,  forspent. 

Into  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Forspent  with  love  and  shame. 

But  the  olives  they  were  not  blind  to  Him, 

The  little  gray  leaves  were  kind  to  Him, 

The  thorn-tree  had  a  mind  to  Him 

When  into  the  woods  He  came. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  went, 

And  He  was  well  content. 

Out  of  the  woods  my  Master  came, 

Content  with  death  and  shame. 

When  Death  and  Shame  would  woo  Him  last, 

From  under  the  trees  they  drew  Him  last ; 

'Twas  on  a  tree  they  slew  Him — last 

When  out  of  the  woods  He  came. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


AND  THE  DYING  a; 


PEACE 

Mv  soul,  there  is  a  countrie, 

Afar  beyond  the  stars, 
Where  stands  a  winged  sentrie 

All  skilful  in  the  wars. 
There,  above  noise  and  danger, 

Sweet  peace  sits  crowned  with  smiles, 
And  One  born  in  a  manger 

Commands  the  beauteous  files. 
He  is  thy  gracious  Friend, 

And  (O  my  soul,  awake  !) 
Did  in  pure  love  descend, 

To  die  here  for  thy  sake. 
If  thou  canst  get  but  thither, 

There  grows  the  flower  of  peace, 
The  Rose  that  cannot  wither, 

Thy  fortresse  and  thy  ease. 
Leave,  then,  thy  foolish  ranges, 

For  none  can  thee  secure, 
But  one  who  never  changes — 

Thy  God,  thy  Life,  thy  Cure. 

Henry  Vaughtu 


88  THE  SICK 


POOR  ELLEN 

'Tis  hard  to  die  in  spring-time, 
When,  to  mock  our  bitter  need, 

All  life  around  runs  over 
In  its  fulness  without  heed. 

New  life  for  tiniest  twig  on  tree, 

New  worlds  of  honey  for  the  bee, 

And  not  one  drop  of  dew  for  me, 
Who  perish  as  I  plead. 

'Tis  hard  to  die  in  spring-time, 

When  it  stirs  the  poorest  clod, 
The  wee  wren  lifts  its  little  head 

In  lusty  songs  to  God. 
And  summer  comes  with  conquering  march, 
Her  banners  waving  'neath  the  arch 
Of  heaven,  where  I  lie  and  parch, 

Left  dying  by  the  road. 

'  Tis  hard  to  die  in  spring-time, 

When  the  long  blue  days  unfold, 
And  cowslip-coloured  sunsets 

Grow  like  Heavens  own  heart,  pure  gold. 
Each  breath  of  balm  brings  wave  on  wave 
Of  new  life  that  would  lift  and  lave 
My  life,  whose  feel  is  of  the  grave 
And  mingling  with  the  mould. 


AND  THE  DYING  I 

But  sweet  to  die  in  spring-time, 
When  these  lustres  of  the  sward, 

And  all  the  breaks  of  beauty 

Wherewith  earth  is  daily  starred, 

For  me  are  but  the  outside  show, 

All  leading  to  the  unseen  glow 

Of  that  strange  world  to  which  I  go, 
For  ever  with  the  Lord. 

O  sweet  to  die  in  spring-time, 
When  I  reach  the  promised  Rest, 

And  feel  His  arm  is  round  me, 
Know  I  sink  back  on  His  breast  : 

His  kisses  close  these  poor  dim  eyes  ; 

Soon  shall  I  hear  Him  say,  '  Arise  ! ' 

And  springing  up  with  glad  surprise, 
Shall  know  Him  and  be  blest. 

'Tis  sweet  to  die  in  spring-time 

For  I  feel  my  golden  year 
Of  summer-time  eternal 

Is  beginning  even  here  ! 
'  Poor  Ellen  ! '  now  you  say  and  sigh, 
1 Poor  Ellen  ! '  and  to-morrow  I 
Shall  say,  '  Poor  mother  ! '  and  from  the  sky 

Watch  you  and  wait  you  there. 

Gerald  Massey. 


00  THE  SICK 


WE  SHALL  RISE  AGAIN 

Oh  that  the  keys  of  our  hearts  the  angels  would 

bear  in  their  bosoms, 
For  revelation  fades  and  fades  away, 

Dreamlike  becomes,  and  dim  and  far  withdrawn, 
And  evening  comes  to  find  the  soul  a  prey 

That  was  caught  up  to  vision  at  the  dawn. 
Sword  of  the  Spirit — still  it  sheathes  in  rust, 
And  lips  of  prophecy  are  sealed  with  dust. 

High  lies  the  better  countiy, 
The  land  of  morning  and  perpetual  spring ; 

But  graciously  the  warder, 

Over  its  mountain  border. 
Leans  to  us,  beckoning — bids  us  '  Come  up  hither.' 
And  though  we  climb  with  step  unfixed  and  slow, 
From  visionary  heights  of  hope  we  look  off  thither. 

And  we  must  go. 

And  we  shall  go  !  and  we  shall  go  ! 
We  shall  not  always  weep  and  wander  so, 

Not  always  in  vain, 

By  merciful  pain, 
Be  upcast  from  the  hell  we  seek  again  ! 

How  shall  we 
Whom  the  stars  draw  so,  and  the  uplifting  sea, — 
Answer,  thou  secret  heart  !     How  shall  it  be 
With  all  His  infinite  promising  in  thee  ? 


AND  THE  DYING  91 

Beloved  !  beloved  !  not  cloud  and  fire  alone 
From  bondage  and  the  wilderness  restore, 
And  guide  the  wandering  spirit  to  its  own, 

But  all  His  elements  they  go  before. 
Upon  its  way  the  seasons  bring, 
And  hearten  with  foreshadowing, 

The  resurrection  wonder : 
What  lands  of  death  awake  to  sinff, 
And  germs  of  hope  swell  under ! 
And  full  and  fine,  and  full  and  fine, 
The  day  distils  life's  golden  wine, 
And  night  is  Palace  Beautiful,  Peace  chambered ; 
All  things  are  ours,  and  life  fills  up  of  them 
Such  measure  as  we  hold  ; 

For  ours  beyond  the  gate, 
The  deep  things,  the  untold, 
We  only  wait 


92  THE  SICK 


PARADISE 

Once  in  a  dream  I  saw  the  flowers 
That  bud  and  bloom  in  Paradise  ; 
More  fair  they  are  than  waking  eyes 
Have  seen  in  all  this  world  of  ours. 
And  faint  the  perfume-bearing  rose, 
And  faint  the  lily  on  its  stem, 
And  faint  the  perfect  violet, 
Compared  with  them. 

I  heard  the  songs  of  Paradise : 
Each  bird  sat  singing  in  his  place ; 
A  tender  song  so  full  of  grace, 
It  soared  like  incense  to  the  skies. 
Each  bird  sat  singing  to  his  mate, 
Soft  loving  notes  among  the  trees  ; 
The  nightingale  herself  were  cold 
To  such  as  these. 

I  saw  the  fourfold  river  flow, 
And  deep  it  was,  with  golden  sand  : 
It  flowed  between  a  mossy  land 
With  murmured  music,  grave  and  low. 
It  hath  refreshment  for  all  thirst, 
For  fainting  spirits  strength  and  rest ; 
Earth  holds  not  such  a  draught  as  this 
From  east  to  west. 


AND  THE  DYING  99 

The  Tree  of  Life  stood  budding  there, 
Abundant  with  its  twelvefold  fruits  ; 
Eternal  sap  sustains  its  roots, 
Its  shadowy  branches  fill  the  air. 
Its  leaves  are  healing  for  the  world, 
Its  fruit  the  hungry  world  can  feed, 
Sweeter  than  honey  to  the  taste, 
And  balm  indeed. 

I  saw  the  gate  called  Beautiful  ; 
And  looked,  but  scarce  could  look  within ; 
I  saw  the  golden  streets  begin, 
And  outskirts  of  the  glassy  pool. 
Oh  harps,  oh  crowns  of  plenteous  stars, 
Oh  green  palm  branches  many-leaved — 
Eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard, 
Nor  heart  conceived. 

I  hope  to  see  these  things  again, 
But  not  as  once  in  dreams  by  night ; 
To  see  them  with  my  very  sight, 
And  touch  and  handle  and  attain ; 
To  have  all  heaven  beneath  my  fee 
For  narrow  way  that  once  they  trod ; 
To  have  my  part  with  all  the  saints, 
And  with  my  God. 

Christina  G.  Kossetti. 


y-1  THE  SICK 


SWEET  DEATH 

The  sweetest  blossoms  die. 
And  so  it  was  that,  going  day  by  day 
Unto  the  church  to  praise  and  pray, 
And  crossing  the  green  churchyard  thoughtfully, 
I  saw  how  on  the  graves  the  flowers 
Shed  their  fresh  leaves  in  showers, 
And  how  their  perfume  rose  up  to  the  sky 
Before  it  passed  away. 

The  youngest  blossoms  die ; 
They  die  and  fall  and  nourish  the  rich  earth 
From  which  they  lately  had  their  birth. 
Sweet  life  !  but  sweeter  death,  that  passeth  by, 
And  is  as  though  it  had  not  been ! 
All  colours  turn  to  green : 
The  bright  hues  vanish,  and  the  odours  fly, 
The  grass  hath  lasting  worth. 

And  ycith  and  beauty  die. 
So  be  it,  O  my  God,  Thou  God  of  Truth  : 
Better  than  beauty  and  than  youth 
Are  saints  and  angels,  a  glad  company ; 
And  Thou,  O  Lord,  our  Rest  and  Ease, 
Art  better  far  than  these. 
Why  should  we  shrink  from  our  full  harvest  ?  Why 
Prefer  to  glean  with  Ruth  ? 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 


AND  THE  DYING  95 


MOTHER  COUNTRY 

On  !  what  is  that  country, 

And  where  can  it  be, 
Not  mine  own  country, 

But  dearer  far  to  me  ? 
Yet  mine  own  country, 

If  I  one  day  shall  see 
Its  spices  and  cedars 

Its  gold  and  ivory. 

As  I  lie  dreaming 

It  rises,  that  land  ; 
There  rises  before  me 

Its  green  golden  strand, 
With  the  bowing  cedars 

And  the  shining  sand  ; 
It  sparkles  and  flashes 

Like  a  shaken  brand. 

Do  angels  lean  nearer 

While  I  lie  and  long? 
I  see  their  soft  plumage 

And  catch  their  windy  song 
Like  the  rise  of  a  high  tide 

Sweeping  full  and  strong, 
I  heard  the  outskirts 

Of  their  reverend  throng. 


96  THE  SICK 

Oh  !  what  is  a  king  here, 

Or  what  is  a  boor  ? 
Here  all  starve  together, 

All  dwarfed  and  poor. 
Here  Death's  hand  knocketh 

At  door  after  door, 
He  thins  the  dancers 

From  the  festal  floor. 

Oh  !  what  is  a  handmaid > 

Or  what  is  a  queen  ? 
All  must  he  down  together 

Where  the  turf  is  green. 
The  foulest  face  hidden, 

The  fairest  not  seen  : 
Gone  as  if  never 

They  had  breathed  or  been. 

Gone  from  sweet  sunshine 

Underneath  the  sod, 
Turned  from  warm  flesh  and  blood 

To  senseless  clod. 
Gone  as  if  never 

They  had  toiled  or  trod, 
Gone  out  of  sight  of  all 

Except  our  God. 

Shut  into  silence 

From  the  accustomed  song ; 
Shut  into  solitude 

From  all  earth's  throng. 


AND  THE  DYING  97 

Run  down  though  swift  of  loot, 
Thrust  down  though  strong  ; 

Life  made  an  end  of, 
Seemed  it  short  or  long. 

Life  made  an  end  of, 

Life  but  just  begun  ; 
Life  finished  yesterday, 

Its  last  sand  run  : 
Life  new-born  with  the  morrow, 

Fresh  as  the  sun  ; 
While  done  is  done  for  ever  : 

Undone,  undone. 

And  if  that  life  is  life, 

This  is  but  a  breath, 
The  passage  of  a  dream 

And  the  shadow  of  death  ; 
But  a  vain  shadow 

If  one  considereth ; 
Vanity  of  vanities, 

As  the  Preacher  saith. 

Chrhtina  G.  Rossetti. 


08  THE  SICK 


AT  LAST 

When  on  my  day  of  life  the  night  is  falling, 

And,  in  the  winds  from  unsunned  spaces  blown, 

I  hear  far  voices  out  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  who  hast  made  my  home  of  life  so  pleasant, 
Leave  not  its  tenant  when  its  walls  decay ; 

0  Love  divine,  O  Helper  ever  present, 
Be  Thou  my  strength  and  stay ! 

Be  near  me  when  all  else  is  from  me  drifting — 
Earth,  sky,  home's  pictures,  days  of  shade  and  shine, 

And  kindly  faces  to  my  own  uplifting 
The  love  which  answers  mine. 

1  have  but  Thee,  O  Father :  let  Thy  Spirit 

Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and  uphold  ; 
No  gate  of  pearl,  no  branch  of  palm,  I  merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if — my  good  and  ill  unredeemed, 

And  both  forgiven  through  Thy  abounding  grace — 

I  find  myself  by  hands  familiar  beckoned 
Unto  my  fitting  place  : 


AND  THE  DYING  99 

Some  humble  door  among  Thy  many  mansions, 
Some  sheltering  shade  where  sin  and  striving  cease, 

And  flows  for  ever  through  heaven's  green  expansions 
The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

There,  from  the  music  round  about  me  stealing, 
I  fain  would  learn  the  new  and  holy  song, 

And  find,  at  last,  beneath  Thy  tree  of  healing, 
The  life  for  which  I  long. 

J  aim  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


100  THE  SICK 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS 

'  How  went  the  Day  ? '  you  say. 

(  Truly  the  sun  arose, 
Bright  with  unhindered  heat ; 

Soon  came  the  bitter  blows 
Of  hailstone  and  storming  sleet : 

Falling  in  heaps  they  froze 
Fast  in  the  field  and  the  street.' 

'  Ah,  my  friend !  nearer  the  end  : 
Nearer  than  ever  to-night,  my  friend/ 

'  How  went  the  Heart  ? '  you  say. 

c  Calm  as  a  windless  sea : 
But  with  a  fiendish  speed 

Here  came  temptations  three, 
Luring  me  on  to  heed  : 

Then  it  was  stern  to  be 
The  reiner  of  that  heart's  greed.' 

'  Ah,  my  friend  !  nearer  the  end  : 
Nearer  than  ever  to-night,  my  friend.' 

'  How  went  the  Work  ? '  you  say. 

1  Lightsome  enough  for  a  while, 
Lightsome  with  song  and  jest. 

Soon  came  the  frown  for  the  smile, 
Half  a  curse  for  the  toil's  behest ; 

But  I  strove  against  glamour  and  guile, 
And  I  know  I  was  not  unblest.' 

c  Ah,  my  friend  !  nearer  the  end  : 
Nearer  than  ever  to-night,  my  friend,' 


AND  THE  DYING  101 

'  How  went  Heaven  ? '  you  say. 

*  Truly  it  came  to  me, 
Faint  as  a  dawn  in  my  soul  : 

Then  brightening  fair  and  free 
To  a  noontide  splendour  whole, 

Till  it  was  a  bliss  to  be 
So  near  to  my  heart's  one  goal.' 

'  Ah,  my  friend  !  nearer  the  end  : 
Nearer  than  ever  to-night,  my  friend.' 

1  Nearer  the  end  ? '  you  say. 

'Yes  ;  I  am  glad  to  think 
How  as  I  lie  in  the  night. 

Close  to  the  dim  sleep-brink, 
There  is  nothing  before  my  sight 

To  cause  me  to  sigh  or  shrink, 
If  I  float  at  once  to  God's  light  : 

He,  my  friend,  stands  at  the  end  : 
Nearer  to  Christ  to-night,  my  friend.' 

Alfred  Norris. 


A02  THE  SICK 


OUT  OF  THE  BODY  TO  GOD 

Wearily,  wearily,  wearily, 
Sobbing  through  space  like  a  south  wind, 
Floating  in  limitless  ether, 
Ether  unbounded,  unfathomed, 
Where  is  no  upward  nor  downward, 
Island,  nor  shallow,  nor  shore  : 
Wearily  floating  and  sobbing, 
Out  of  the  body  to  God  ! 

Lost  in  the  spaces  of  blankness, 
Lost  in  the  deepening  abysses, 
Haunted  and  tracked  by  the  past : 
No  more  sweet  human  caresses, 
No  more  the  springing  of  morning, 
Never  more  from  the  present 
Into  a  future  beguiled  : 
Lonely,  defiled,  and  despairing, 
Out  of  the  body  to  God  ! 

Reeling,  and  tearless,  and  desperate, 
On  through  the  quiet  of  ether, 
Helpless,  alone,  and  forsaken, 
Faithless  in  ignorant  anguish, 
Faithless  of  gasping  repentance, 
Measuring  Him  by  thy  measure, — 
Measure  of  need  and  desert, 
Out  of  the  body  to  God  ! 


AND  THE  DYING  103 

Soft  through  the  starless  abysses, 
Soft  as  the  breath  of  the  summer 
Loosens  the  chains  of  the  river, 
Sweeping  it  free  to  the  sea, 
Murmurs  a  murmur  of  peace  : 
1  Soul !  in  the  deepness  of  heaven 
Findest  thou  shallow  or  shore ! 
Hast  thou  beat  madly  on  limit, 
Hast  thou  been  stayed  in  thy  fleeing 
Out  of  the  body  to  God  ? 

'  Thou  that  hast  known  Me  in  spaces 
Boundless,  untraversed,  unfathomed, 
Hast  thou  not  known  Me  in  love  ? 
Am  I,  Creator  and  Guider, 
Less  than  thy  kingdom  and  work  ? 
Come,  O  thou  weary  and  desolate  ! 
Come  to  the  heart  of  thy  Father, 
Home  from  thy  wanderings  weary, 
Home  from  the  lost  to  the  Loving, 
Out  of  the  body  to  God  ! ' 


104  THE  SICK 


TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL  DYING 

This  is  Palm-Sunday.     Mindful  of  the  day, 
I  bring  Palm-branches,  found  upon  my  way ; 
But  these  will  wither,  thine  shall  never  die, 
The  sacred  palms  thou  bearest  to  the  sky  ! 
Dear  little  saint,  though  but  a  child  in  years, 
Older  in  wisdom  than  my  gray  compeers  ! 
We  doubt  and  tremble,  we  with  bated  breath 
Talk  of  this  mystery  of  life  and  death  : 
Thou,  strong  in  faith,  and  gifted  to  conceive 
Beyond  thy  years,  and  teach  us  to  believe ! 

Then  take  thy  palms  triumphal  to  thy  home, 
Gentle  white  palmer,  never  more  to  roam  ! 
Only,  sweet  sister,  give  me,  ere  thou  go'st 
Thy  benediction, — for  my  love  thou  know'st ; 
We,  too,  are  pilgrims,  travelling  towards  the  shrine 
Pray  that  our  pilgrimage  may  end  like  thine  ! 

T.  W.  Parsons. 


AND  THK  DYING  105 


THE  PATHS  OF  DEATH 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

Like  the  bright  slanting  west, 
Thou  leadest  down  into  the  glow 
Where  all  those  heaven-bound  sunsets  go, 

Ever  from  toil  and  rest. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

Back  to  our  own  dear  dead, 
Into  that  land  which  hides  in  tombs 
The  better  part  of  our  old  homes, 

'Tis  there  thou  mak'st  our  bed. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

Thither  where  sorrows  cease, 
To  a  new  life,  to  an  old  past, 
Softly  and  silently  we  haste 

Into  a  land  of  peace. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death ! 

Thy  new  restores  our  lost ; 
There  are  voices  of  the  new  times, 
With  the  ringing  of  the  old  chimes, 

Blent  sweetly  on  thy  coast. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 
One  faint  for  want  of  breath  ; 


106  THE  SICK 

And  above  thy  promise  thou  hast  given, 
All  we  find  more  than  all  in  heaven, 
O  thou  truth-speaking  Death  ! 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

E'en  children  after  play 
Lie  down  without  the  least  alarm, 
And  sleep  in  thy  maternal  arm 

Their  little  life  away. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

E'en  grown-up  men  secure 
Better  manhood,  by  a  brave  leap 
Though  the  chill  mist  of  thy  thin  sleep, 

Manhood  that  will  endure. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

The  old,  the  very  old, 
Smile  when  their  slumbrous  eye  grows  dim, 
Smile  when  they  feel  thee  touch  each  limb  : 

Their  age  was  not  less  cold. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death ! 

Ever  from  pain  to  ease ; 
Patience,  that  hath  held  on  for  years, 
Never  unlearns  her  humble  fears 

Of  terrible  disease. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

From  sin  to  pleasing  God  : 
For  the  pardoned  in  thy  land  are  bright 
As  innocence  in  robe  of  white, 

And  walk  on  the  same  road. 


AND  THE  DYING  107 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

Straight  to  our  Father's  Home  : 
All  loss  were  gain  that  gained  us  this, 
The  Light  of  God,  that  single  bliss 

Of  the  grand  world  to  come. 

How  pleasant  are  thy  paths,  O  Death  ! 

Ever  from  toil  to  rest, — 
Where  a  rim  of  sea-like  splendour  runs, 
Where  the  days  bury  their  golden  suns 

In  the  dear,  hopeful  west. 

Frederick  W.  Faber. 


THE  SICK 


'TALITHA  CUMI.' 

Maiden  to  my  twelfth  year  come, 

I  had  read  a  Scripture  story 
Of  a  damsel,  cold  and  dumb, 

Wakened  by  the  Lord  of  glory ; 
And  it  seemed  to  me  He  spoke, 

And  His  living  word  thrilled  through  me, 
Till  in  me  new  life  awoke, 

When  He  said,  '  Talitha  cumi.' 

I  had  to  my  chamber  gone, 

Eyes  all  swoll'n  and  red  with  weeping  j 
For  my  heart  was  like  a  stone, 

And  my  life  a  dream  in  sleeping. 
Jesus  in  my  chamber  stood, 

Jesus  stretched  His  hands  out  to  me, — 
Hands  all  pierced,  and  dropping  blood ! 

And  He  said,  '  Talitha  cumi.' 

Friends  and  neighbours  gathered  in, 

Made  no  small  ado,  and  weeping  : 
Dead  I  was  ;  yes,  dead  in  sin ; 

Dead ;  but  I  was  only  sleeping. 
For  Thy  word  upraised  me,  Lord, 

Freed  from  the  disease  that  slew  me ; 
And  to  pious  friends  restored, 

Crowned  with  Thy  '  Talitha  cumi.' 


AND  THE  DYING  10t> 

Now  with  lamp  1  watch  and  wait 

For  my  Lord's  returning  to  me ; 
Should  I  slumber  when  'tis  late, 

Let  that  word  rouse  and  renew  me  : 
And  when  long  laid  in  the  tomb, 

Long  forgot  by  all  who  knew  me, 
Thou  wilt  not  forget  to  come, 

With  Thy  sweet  'Talitha  cumi.' 

\V.  B.  Role rt son. 


110  THE  SICK 


BURY  ME  IN  KIRKBRIDE* 

Bury  me  in  Kirkbride, 

Where  the  Lord's  redeemed  anes  lie  : 
The  auld  kirkyard  on  the  green  hillside, 
Under  the  open  sky — 
Under  the  open  sky, 
On  the  breist  o'  the  brae  sae  steep, 

And  side  by  side  wi'  the  banes  that  lie 
Streiked  there  in  their  hinmost  sleep. 
This  puir  dune  body  maun  sune  be  dust, 

But  it  thrills  wi'  a  stound  o'  pride, 
To  ken  it  will  mix  wi'  the  great  and  just 
That  are  buried  in  thee — Kirkbride. 

Wheesh't !     Did  the  saft  wind  speak  ? 

Or  a  yammerin'  nicht-bird  cry  ? 
Did  I  dream  that  a  warm  hand  touched  my  cheek, 
And  a  winsome  face  gaed  by  ? — 
And  a  winsome  face  gaed  by  ? 
Wi'  a  far-aff  licht  in  its  een — 

A  licht  that  bude  come  frae  the  dazzlin'  sky, 
For  it  spak'  o'  the  sternies'  sheen. 

i  '  There  is  near  Sanquhar,  in  a  lonely  little  glen  on  a  steep  hill- 
side, the  ruin  of  a  small  church  called  Kirkbride,  within  and  around 
which  are  buried  a  number  of  the  old  Covenanters,  among  them  the 
"Black  Macmichael,"  a  famed  swordsman  who  crossed  weapons 
successfully  with  the  "  bluidy  Clavers."  The  spot  is  sacred  to  the 
people.  The  soughing  of  the  wind  on  a  summer  Sabbath  seems 
the  sound  of  psalms.  An  old  man  when  he  was  dying  said,  "  Bury 
me  in  Kirkbride,  for  there's  much  of  God's  redeemed  dust  lies 
there,"  and  on  this  saying  the  verses  are  founded.'— i>.  John  Ker, 


AND  THE  DYING  111 

Age  may  be  donnert  and  dazed  and  blin', 

But  I  '11  warrant,  whate'er  betide, 
A  true  heart  there  made  tryst  wi'  my  ain, 

And  the  tryst  word  was — Kirkbride  ! 

Hark  !  frae  the  far  hill-taps, 

And  laigh  frae  the  lanesome  glen, 
A  sweet  psalm  tune  like  a  late  dew  draps 
Its  wild  notes  doon  the  wind ; — 
Its  wild  notes  doon  the  wind, 
Wi'  a  kent  soun'  ower  my  mind, 

For   we    sang't   on   the   muir — a   wheen   huntit 
men 
Wi'  our  lives  in  our  hand  lang  syne ; 

But  naething  on  earth  can  disturb  this  sang, 

Were  it  Clavers  in  a'  his  pride, 
For  it's  raised  by  the  Lord's  ain  ransomed  thrang 
Foregathered  abune  Kirkbride. 

I  hear  May  Moril's  tongue 

That  I  wistna  to  hear  again, 
And  there  'twas  the  Black  Macmichael's  sang 
Clear  in  the  closin'  strain — 
Clear  in  the  closin'  strain, 
Frae  his  big  heart  bauld  and  true  ; 

It  stirs  my  soul  as  in  days  bygane, 
When  his  guid  braidsword  he  drew  : 

I  needs  maun  be  aff  to  the  moors  ance  mair, 

For  he  '11  miss  me  by  his  side ; 
In  the  thrang  o'  the  battle  I  aye  was  there, 
And  sae  maun  it  be  in  Kirkbride. 


112  THE  SICK 

Rax  me  my  staff'  and  plaid, 

That  in  readiness  I  may  be, 
And  dinna  forget  that  The  Book  be  laid 
Open  across  my  knee — 
Open  across  my  knee, 
And  a  text  close  by  my  thoom ; 

And  tell  me  true,  for  I  scarce  can  see 
That  the  words  are  '  Lo,  I  come  ! ' 

Then  carry  me  through  at  the  Cample  Ford, 

And  up  the  lang  hillside  ;        * 
And  I  '11  wait  for  the  com  in'  o'  God  the  Lord 
In  a  neuk  o'  the  auld  Kirkbride. 

Robert  Wanlock  Reid. 


AND  THE  HYING  113 


THE  TAKEN  TO  THE  LEFT 

No  ;  it  is  not  dying 

Thus  to  fall  asleep 
As  the  work-day  closes, 

And  the  shadows  deep 
Tell  of  rest  arriving, 

Slumbers  long  and  light, 
With  a  still  lamp  burning 

In  the  heart  of  night. 

No  ;  it  is  not  dying  : 

We  are  both  with  Him 
Who  is  Lord  of  all  the  worlds, 

Whether  bright  or  dim. 
If  we  sleep  or  if  we  wake 

We  will  keep  our  tryst, 
When  the  Sign  upon  the  sky 

Brings  the  Day  of  Christ. 

No ;  it  is  not  dying  : 

Sure,  unwearied  arms 
Are  beneath  me,  saving 

From  the  last  alarms. 
I  am  sinking  thither, 

Very  full  of  rest, 
As  a  bird  with  broken  wings 

Sinks  into  its  nest. 

W.  R.  N. 


114  THE  SICK 


UNFULFILLED 

I  am  dying,  O  Lord  !  I  am  dying, 

Brain  fire,  with  my  feet  in  the  snow ; 
My  limbs  all  a-trembling  are  lying 

Awaiting  their  pitiless  foe  — 
He  comes,  rushes  Fever  to  blind  me, 

A  bloodhound  with  poisonous  breath  : 
I  hear  him,  his  steps  are  behind  me  ; 

I  feel  them,  those  fangs  that  are  death. 

The  words  that  I  utter  are  madness, 

The  silence  I  keep  is  despair, 
All  whispers  of  hope  and  of  gladness 

Have  died  as  they  fell  through  the  air : 
No  friendship,  no  love  can  avail  me, 

No  hand  but  it  burns  on  my  brain, 
My  pulses  like  demons  assail  me, 

My  strength  is  the  slave  to  my  pain. 

All  spells  of  religion  and  duty, 

All  manhood  and  manhood's  desire, 
All  pureness  and  wisdom  and  beauty, 

Are  scorched  and  burned  up  in  the  fire ; 
And  the  ladder  of  Jacob,  the  dreamer, 

No  longer  is  stretched  from  above, 
Yet  still,  O  my  Lord  !  my  Redeemer  ! 

I  cling,  I  have  root  in  your  love  ! 


AND  THE  DYING  115 

I  must  die,  like  a  deed  unrecorded, 

Like  a  bud  to  be  never  a  Hower  ; 
The  knowledge,  the  truths  I  have  hoarded, 

Must  fade  like  a  spark  in  the  shower ; 
A  fragment,  a  blot,  a  negation 

For  ever  my  life  must  remain  ; 
But  the  spark  you  have  quenched  at  creation, 

O  Lord  !  you  can  fire  it  again. 

What  matter  whose  lips  shall  proclaim  it, 

If  only  the  Truth  shall  go  free  ? 
What  recks  it  whose  fervour  shall  frame  it, 

The  paean  forbidden  to  me  ? 
I  care  not,  the  Present  may  scoff  me, 

The  Future  forget  my  renown  ; 
Take,  take  the  white  garment  from  off  me, 

And  give  to  another  my  crown  ! 


116  THE  SICK 


DYING 

Tender,  airiest  spirit, 

Naked,  fair,  alone, 
True  as  softest  melody's 

Sweetest  undertone, 
Tell  me,  dost  thou  shiver 

At  the  purpling  wave 
Of  the  misty  river  ? 

Good  my  soul,  be  brave  ! 

Starry  glimpses  often 

Doth  that  mist  unfold, 
Oft  its  splendorous  edges 

Burn  with  rose  and  gold. 
Oft  those  sparkling  tiars 

Angels  o'er  it  wave, 
Gemmed  with  rainbow  fires  : 

Good  my  soul,  be  brave  ! 

Thousands  true  it  scorcheth, 

Flaming  naphthaline  ; 
Thousands  more  it  healeth, 

Balmed  with  anodyne. 
And  the  noblest  ever 

Love  their  lives  to  lave 
In  the  gloomy  river  : 

Good  my  soul,  be  brave ! 


AND  THE  DYING  117 

Life,  and  Truth,  and  Wisdom 

Dwell  o'er  yonder  tide  ; 
And  a  tranquil  stillness, 

To  our  world  denied  ; 
And  each  holy  spirit, 

Whom  our  God  doth  save, 
Those  bright  homes  doth  herit : 

Good  my  soul,  be  brave  ! 

F.  W.  F. 


118  THE  SICK 


VESPERS 

When  I  have  said  my  quiet  say, 
When  I  have  sung  my  little  song, 
How  sweetly,  sweetly  dies  the  day, 
The  valley  and  the  hills  along ; 
How  sweet  the  summons,  c  Come  away/ 
That  calls  me  from  the  busy  throng  ! 

I  thought  beside  the  water's  flow 
Awhile  to  lie  beneath  the  leaves, 
I  thought  in  autumn's  harvest  glow 
To  rest  my  head  upon  the  sheaves ; 
But,  lo  !  methinks  the  day  was  brief 
And  cloudy ;  flower,  nor  fruit,  nor  leaf 
I  bring,  and  yet  accepted,  free, 
And  blest,  my  Lord,  I  come  to  Thee. 

What  matter  now  for  promise  lost, 
Through  blast  of  Spring  or  Summer  rain  ; 
For  broken  hopes  and  wasted  pains  ; 
What  if  the  olive  little  yields, 
What  if  the  grape  be  blighted  ?     Thine 
The  corn  upon  a  thousand  fields, 
Upon  a  thousand  hills  the  vine. 


AND  THE  DYING  liy 

Thou  lovest  still  the  poor :  oh,  blest 

In  poverty  beloved  to  be  ! 

Less  lowly  is  ray  choice  confess'd, 

I  love  the  best  in  loving  Thee ! 

My  spirit  bare  before  Thee  stands, 

I  bring  no  gift,  I  ask  no  sign, 

I  come  to  Thee  with  empty  hands, 

The  surer  to  be  filled  from  Thine  ! 

Dora  (lreenwel/. 


Ill 

THE   BEREAVED 


She  is  gone,  and  what  is  it  we  miss 

In  the  many  we  meet  ? 
A  scent,  or  a  smile,  or  the  kiss 

That  she  sent  on  the  air,  or  a  wave 
Of  her  hand  as  she  passed — but  the  street 

Seems  as  still  as  the  grave. 


Dear  are  the  blossoms 

For  bride's  or  maiden' 's  head, 
But  dearer  planted 

Around  our  blessed  dead. 
Those  mind  us  of  decay 
And  joys  that  fade  away  ; 

These  preach  to  us  perfection, 

Long  love,  and  resurrectio?:. 
We  make  our  graveyards  fair, 
For  spirit-like  birds  of  air, 
For  angels  may  be  finding  there 

Lost  Fden's  own  delation. 


122 


A  MEETING 

I  can  recall  so  well  how  she  would  look — 
How  at  the  very  murmur  of  her  dress 

On  entering  the  door,  the  whole  room  took 
An  air  of  gentleness. 

That  was  so  long  ago,  and  yet  his  eyes 

Had  always,  afterwards,  the  look  that  waits 

And  yearns,  and  waits  again,  nor  can  disguise 
Something  it  contemplates. 

May  we  imagine  it  ?  the  sob,  the  tears, 

The  long,  sweet,  shuddering  breath;  then,  on 
her  breast, 

The  great,  full,  flooding  sense  of  endless  years 
Of  heaven,  and  her,  and  rest. 


]24  THE  BEREAVED 


THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes 
God's  meekest  angel  gently  comes ; 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again, 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love  our  dear 
And  heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There 's  quiet  in  that  angel's  glance, 
There 's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 
He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 
Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear : 
But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 
He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear ; 
The  throbs  of  wandering  pride  to  still, 
And  make  our  own  our  Father's  will ! 

O  thou  who  mournest  on  the  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  ( Be  resigned ' ; 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell, 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  BEREAVED  125 


OUR  ANGEL  CHILD 

Always  lightest  was  her  laughter, 

There  was  dream-land  in  its  tone, 
Though  she  mingled  with  the  children, 

Yet  she  always  seem'd  alone. 
And  her  prattle — 'twas  but  child's  talk, 

Yet  it  always  sparkled  o'er 
With  a  strange  and  shadowy  wisdom, 

With  a  bird-like,  fairy  lore, 
Which  you  could  not  help  but  fancy 

You  had  somewhere  heard  before, 
In  some  old-world  happy  version, 

By  a  bright  Elysian  shore. 

All  the  little  children  loved  her — 

None  so  joyous  in  their  play  : 
And  yet  ever  there  was  something 

Which  seemed — ah  !  so  far  away, 
From  the  joyance  and  the  laughter, 

And  the  streamlet's  crisping  foam — 
'Twas  as  if  some  little  song-bird 

Had  dropp'd  down  from  yon  blue  dome, 
Warbling  still  among  the  others, 

Wandering  with  them  where  they  roam, 
And  yet  hallowing  remembrance 

With  low  gushes  about  home ! 


126  THE  BEREAVED 

Oh,  the  glory  of  those  child  eyes ! 

Oh,  the  music  of  her  feet ! 
Oh,  those  peals  of  spirit  laughter 

Coming  up  the  village  street ! 
Shall  we  never  hear  her  knocking 

At  the  little  ivied  door  ? 
Will  she  never  run  to  kiss  us 

Bounding  o'er  the  oaken  floor  ? 
Has  that  music  gone  for  ever  ? 

Are  those  tender  lispings  o'er? 
Oh,  the  terror  !  oh,  the  anguish, 

Of  that  one  word — nevermore  ! 

Ever  was  she  but  a  stranger 

Among  sublunary  things  : 
All  her  life  was  but  the  folding 

Of  her  gorgeous  spirit-wings — 
Nothing  more  than  a  forgetting — 

Still  she  gave  more  than  she  took 
From  the  sunlight  or  the  starlight, 

From  the  meadow  or  the  brook : — 
There  was  music  in  her  silence, 

There  was  wisdom  in  her  look  : 
There  was  raying  out  of  beauty 

As  from  some  transcendent  book  : 
She  was  wonderful  as  grottoes 

With  strange  gods  in  every  nook  ! 

And  at  night  amid  the  silence, 

With  the  little  prayer-clasped  hands, 

She  look'd  holy  as  the  Christ-Church 
Rising  white  in  Pagan  lands  : 


THE  BEREAVED  127 

Seem'd  she  but  the  faltering  prelude 

To  a  great  tale  of  God's  throne — 
As  a  flower  dropp'd  out  of  heaven, 

Telling  whither  it  has  grown. 
But  she  left  us — she  our  angel — 

Without  murmur,  without  moan, 
And  we  woke  and  found  it  starlight — 

Found  that  we  were  all  alone, 
And  as  desolate  as  birds'  nests 

When  the  fledglings  all  have  flown  ! 

But  our  house  has  been  made  sacred — 

Sacred  every  spot  she  trod ; 
For  she  came  a  starry  preacher, 

Dedicating  all  to  God. 
Render  thanks  unto  the  Giver, 

Though  His  gift  be  out  of  sight, 
For  a  jubilant  to-morrow 

Shall  come  after  this  to-night. 
She  hath  left  a  spirit  glory 

Blending  with  the  grosser  light : 
Oh,  the  earth  to  us  is  holy  ! 

Oh,  the  other  world  is  bright ! 

John  St  any  an  B\fjg. 


128  THE  BEREAVED 


'FOR  OF  SUCH  IS  THE  KINGDOM' 

Just  opened  blue  eyes,  and  looked  on  the  world, 

then  made  no  further  stay  : 
When  you  put  your  darling  in  my  arms  I  hadn't  a 

word  to  say, 
And  through  my  tears  came  the  blinding  thought, 

f  God's  way  is  a  terrible  way  ; 
I  couldn't  have  dealt  to  my  foe  the  stroke  He  has 

dealt  to  His  own  to-day.' 

Such  a  tiny,  precious  thing,  just  made  for  a  mother's 

love  to  enfold, 
The  little  feet  too  feeble  yet  to  tread  the  streets  of 

gold; 
The  howling  winds  were  wild  without,  and  dank 

rains  drenched  the  mould — 
It  was  hard  to   lay  the  helpless  babe  out  in  the 

storm  and  cold. 

I  know  in  love  our  Master  took  your  darling  little  lad ; 

Some  say,  '  The  baby-head  is  crowned  and  the  baby- 
heart  is  glad ; 

He  might  have  lived  a  godless  life — now  wherefore 
go  so  sad  ? 

It  was  in  mercy  that  our  Lord  took  from  you  all 
you  had.' 

Does  God  snatch  souls  away  from  life   lest  they 

stumble  in  the  race  ? 
Nay,  verily,  His  chosen  ones  only  behold  His  face ; 


THE  BEREAVED  121) 

Living  or  dying,  in  God's  heaven  your  babe  had 

found  a  place, 
Purer  than  earth  his  new-born  soul  went  straight  to 

Christ's  embrace. 

I   think  he'll   learn   to   know  you   there,   in   child 

accents  lisp  your  name  : 
Do   heaven's  great   harmonies  of   love  shut  out   a 

parent's  claim  ? 
The  passionate  heart  of  motherhood  woke  in  you 

when  he  came, 
And,  one  day,  dear  love  answering  yours  will  satisfy 

the  flame. 

Ah,  friend  !  we  sinful,  struggling  souls  need  a  close 

human  tie, 
Need  heart  of  heart,  and  life  of  life,  to  draw  us  to 

the  sky ; 
When  the  hands  of  earth  grow  slack,  the  soul  goes 

out  in  a  great  cry 
That  is  only  stilled  in   the  echo  of  the  new  song 

sung  on  high. 

We  hear  the  breaking  billows  as  all  doubting  here 

we  stand ; 
We  cannot  see  the  glory  and  green  verdure  of  that 

strand ; 
But  we  put  fair  flowers  of  hawthorn  in  the  tiny 

waxen  hand, 
And  say,  '  Our  darling  wakens  in  a  better,  brighter 

land.' 

Eliza  W.  Nicoll. 


130  THE  BEREAVED 


WHEN  THE  NIGHT  AND  MORNING  MEET 

In  the  dark  and  narrow  street, 

Into  a  world  of  woe, 
Where  the  tread  of  many  feet 

Went  trampling  to  and  fro, 
A  child  was  born  (speak  low) 

When  the  night  and  morning  meet. 

Full  seventy  summers  back, 

Was  this — so  long  ago, 
The  feet  that  wore  the  track 

Are  lying  straight  and  low, 
Yet  there  hath  been  no  lack 

Of  passers  to  and  fro. 

Within  the  narrow  street 

This  Childhood  ever  played ; 

Beyond  this  narrow  street 

This  Manhood  never  strayed  ; 

This  Age  sat  still  and  prayed, 
Anear  the  trampling  feet. 

The  tread  of  ceaseless  feet 

Flowed  through  his  life,  unstirred 

By  water's  fall,  or  fleet 
Wind  music,  or  the  bird 

Of  morn  ;  these  sounds  are  sweet, 
But  they  were  still  unheard. 


THE  BEREAVED  131 

Within  the  narrow  street 

I  stood  beside  a  bed, 
I  held  a  dying  head, 

When  the  night  and  morning  meet, 
And  every  word  was  sweet, 

Though  few  the  words  we  said. 

And  as  we  spoke,  dawn  drew 

To  day — the  world  was  fair 
In  fields  afar  I  knew, 

Yet  spoke  not  to  him  there 
Of  how  the  grasses  grew, 

Besprent  with  dew-drops  rare. 

We  spoke  not  of  the  sun, 

Nor  of  this  green  earth  fair ; 
This  Soul,  whose  day  was  done, 

Had  never  claimed  its  share 
In  these,  and  yet  its  rare, 

Rich  heritage  had  won. 

From  the  dark  and  narrow  street 

Into  a  world  of  love, 
A  child  was  born,  speak  low, 

Speak  reverent ;  for  we  know 
Not  how  they  meet  above, 

When  the  night  and  morning  meet. 

Dora  GreenweB. 


132  THE  BEREAVED 


RELEASED 

A  little  low-ceiled  room.  Four  walls 
Whose  blank  shut  out  all  else  of  life, 

And  crowded  close  within  their  bound 
A  world  of  pain,  and  toil,  and  strife. 

Her  world.     Scarce  furthermore  she  knew 
Of  God's  great  globe  that  wondrously 

Ou trolls  a  glory  of  green  earth, 

And  frames  it  with  the  restless  sea. 

Four  closer  walls  of  common  pine, 
And  therein  lieth,  cold  and  still, 

The  weary  flesh  that  long  hath  borne 
Its  patient  mystery  of  ill. 

Regardless  now  of  work  to  do ; 

No  queen  more  careless  in  her  state ; 
Hands  crossed  in  their  unbroken  calm  ; 

For  other  hands  the  work  must  wait. 

Put  by  her  implements  of  toil, 

Put  by  each  coarse,  intrusive  sign  ; 

She  made  a  Sabbath  when  she  died 
And  round  her  breathes  a  Rest  Divine. 

Put  by  at  last  beneath  the  lid 

The  exempted  hands,  the  tranquil  face  ; 
Uplift  her  in  her  dreamless  sleep, 

And  bear  her  gently  from  the  place. 


THE  BKRKAVED  133 

Oft  she  hath  gazed  with  wistful  eyes 

Out  from  that  threshold  from  the  night; 

The  narrow  bourne  she  crosseth  now, 
She  standeth  in  the  Eternal  Light. 

Oft  she  has  pressed  with  aching  feet 

Those  broken  steps  that  reach  the  door  ; 

Henceforth  with  angels  she  shall  tread 
Heaven's  golden  stair  for  evermore. 

A.  D.  T.  Whitney. 


134  THE  BEREAVED 


<  AS  IN  A  GLASS  DARKLY' 

Ah  well,  shall  I  wonder  you  left  me ! 

That  World  is  a  rest : 
For  so  it  is  written.     But  this  one, 

A  battle  at  best. 
Where  the  victors  have  scant  time  for  wearing 

The  green  laurel  crown, 
And  the  vanquish'd  go  down  like  the  dry  leaves 

When  woodlands  are  brown. 

You  were  young.    You  were  gentle.     You  waited 

With  sorrowful  eyes, 
As  vanished  in  fleeting  succession 

Rich  prize  after  prize. 
Till  at  last  your  small  hands  were  left  empty, 

And,  tired  of  the  strife, 
You  turn'd  to  the  Master.     He  led  you 

Away  into  life. 

It  is  long  since  I  saw  you.     I  weary 

And  thirst  every  day. 
Every  day  ! — every  hour  I  ponder, 

All  wistful,  the  way 
That  leads  to  the  kingdom  you  dwell  in  ; 

You  trod  it  full  fast, 
But  I  caught — was  it  only  a  fancy  ? — 

One  sigh  as  you  pass'd. 


THE  BEREAVED  135 

Shall  I  meet  you  some  day  with  the  angels, 

Your  beauty  all  new  ? 
Will  your  soft  eyes  look  on  me  so  fondly, 

As  they  used  to  do, 
When  you  gather  d  my  head  to  your  bosom 

With  tender  caress, 
And  my  lips  with  a  sweet  touch  of  welcome 

You  bent  down  to  press  ? 

I  hope  for  such  meeting — I  lost  you 

So  much  left  untold  ! 
But  perhaps  even  now  you  know  all  things, 

The  new  and  the  old ; 
Perhaps  even  now  you  are  nearer 

Than  ever  before, 
And  you  smile  as  you  watch  me  come  to  you, 

A  Lost  Love  no  more  ! 

Alfred  Norris. 


136  THE  BEREAVED 


VESTA 


O  Christ  of  God  !  whose  life  and  death 

Our  own  have  reconciled, 
Most  quietly,  most  tenderly 

Take  home  Thy  star-named  child  ! 

Thy  grace  is  in  her  patient  eyes, 

Thy  words  are  on  her  tongue  : 
The  very  silence  round  her  seems 

As  if  the  angels  sung. 

Her  smile  is  as  a  listening  child's 

Who  hears  its  mother  call ; 
The  lilies  of  Thy  perfect  peace, 

About  her  pillow  fall. 

She  leans  from  out  her  clinging  arms, 

To  rest  herself  in  Thine ; 
Alone  to  Thee,  dear  Lord,  can  we 

Our  well-beloved  resign ! 

Oh,  less  for  her  than  for  ourselves, 

We  bow  our  heads  and  pray ;  . 
Her  setting  star,  like  Bethlehem's, 

To  Thee  shall  point  the  way  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


J 


TIIU  UKItKAVKI)  137 


THE  E'EN  BRINGS  A'  HA  ME 

Upon  the  hills  the  winds  are  sharp  and  cold. 
The  sweet  young  grasses  wither  on  the  wold, 
And  we,  O  Lord,  have  wandered  from  Thy  fold, 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 

Among  the  mists  we  stumbled  and  the  rocks, 
Where  the  brown  lichen  whitens,  and  the  fox 
Watches  the  straggler  from  the  scattered  flocks, 
But  evening  brings  us  home. 

The  sharp  thorns  prick  us,  and  our  tender  i'eet 
Are  cut  and  bleeding,  and  the  lambs  repeat 
Their  pitiful  complaints — oh  !  rest  is  sweet, 
When  evening  brings  us  home. 

We  have  been  wounded  by  the  hunter's  darts, 
Our  eyes  are  very  heavy,  and  our  hearts 
Search  for  Thy  coming,  when  the  light  departs, 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

The  darkness  gathers,  thro'  the  gloom  no  star 
Rises  to  guide.     We  have  wandered  far, 
Without  Thy  lamp  we  know  not  where  we  are, 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

The   clouds    are    round    us    and    the    snowdrifts 

thicken, 
Oh  Thou  dear  Shepherd,  leave  us  not  to  sicken 
In  the  waste  night,  our  tardy  footsteps  quicken  ; 
At  evening  bring  us  home. 

John  Hkclton. 


138  THE  BEREAVED 


BEREAVEMENT 

When  some  Beloveds,  'neath  whose  eyelids  lay 
The  sweet  lights  of  my  childhood,  one  by  one 
Did  leave  me  dark,  before  the  natural  sun, 
And  I  astonied  fell  and  could  not  pray, — 
A  thought  within  me  to  myself  did  say, 
'  Is  God  less  God  that  thou  art  left  undone  ? 
Rise,  worship,  bless  Him,  in  this  sackcloth  spun, 
As  in  that  purple.' — But  I  answered,  Nay ! 
What  child  his  filial  heart  in  words  can  loose, 
If  he  beheld  his  tender  father  raise 
The  hand  that  chastens  sorely  ?  can  he  choose 
But  sob  in  silence  with  an  upward  gaze — 
And  my  great  Father,  thinking  fit  to  bruise, 
Discerns  in  speechless  tears  both  prayer  and  praise. 

E.  B.  Browning. 


I  in     HKKK.WK!)  139 


consolation- 
all  are  not  taken ;  there  are  left  behind 
Living  Beloveds,  tender  looks  to  bring 
And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy  thing, 
And  tender  voices,  to  make  soft  the  wind. 
But  if  it  were  not  so — if  I  could  find 
No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comforting, 
Nor  any  path  that  hollowly  did  ring, 
Where  '  dust  to  dust '  the  love  from  life  disjoined, 
And  if,  before  those  sepulchres  unmoving 
I  stood  alone  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 
Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  in  weary  dearth 
Crying,  *  Where  are  you,  O  my  loved  and  loving,' 
I  know  a  voice  would  sound,  '  Daughter,  I  Am  : 
Can  I  suffice  for  Heaven  and  not  for  earth  ? ' 

E.  B.  Browning. 


140  THE  BEREAVED 


IN  TIME  OF  TROUBLE 

Rejoice  when  thou  dost  see 
God  take  thy  things  from  thee ; 
Ay — the  greater  the  loss, 
And  the  heavier  the  cross, 
The  greater  the  gain  shall  be. 
When  thy  props  are  laid  low, 
And  friend  turns  to  foe, 
'Tis  but  because  now 
God  seeth  that  thou 
No  longer  on  crutches  must  go — 
Each  here 
Whom  He  setteth  alone, 
He  Himself  is  most  near. 

Bjornstjerne  Bjornson. ' 

1  From  Fells  and  Fiords  of  Norway. 


THE  BEREAVED  141 

THE  SLEEP 

'he  givetii  his  beloved  sleep' 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar, 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep, 
Now  tell  me  if  that  any  is, 
For  gift  or  grace  surpassing  this — 
*  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep '  ? 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep, 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse, 
The  monarch's  crown  to  light  the  brows  ? — 
'  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  world  blasted  for  our  sake : 

■  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  we  sometimes  say, 

Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 

Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids  creep ; 

But  never  doleful  dream  again 

Shall  break  the  happy  slumber  when 

'  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
()  men  with  wailing  in  your  voices ! 


142  THE  BEREAVED 

O  delved  gold  the  wailers  heap ! 

0  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
( And  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill, 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still, 
Though  on  its  slope  men  sow  and  reap  : 
More  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead, 
'  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  when  they  scan 
A  living,  thinking,  feeling  man, 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep ; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  the  word 

1  think  their  happy  smile  is  heard — 
'  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

For  me,  my  heart,  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That  sees  through  tears  the  mummers  leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would,  childlike,  on  His  love  repose, 
'Who  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

And  friends,  dear  friends,  when  it  shall  be 
That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weep, 
Let  one,  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall, 
'  He  giveth  His  beloved,  sleep.' 

E.  B.  Brownim 


THE  BEREAVED  143 


A  DIRGE 


Low  you  lie,  my  dear, 

In  the  grave  ; 

Tall  grass  over  you 

Mixed  with  violet  blue, 

Primrose,  daisy,  too  : 

Low  you  lie. 

Sound  you  sleep,  my  dear, 

In  the  grave. 
Clouds  their  thunder  throw, 
Loud  winds  hoarsely  blow, 
Drifts  the  sleet  and  snow. 

Sound  you  sleep 

Long  you  stay,  my  dear, 
In  the  grave ; 
Sunshine  falls  about, 
Birds  from  nests  peep  out, 
Children  sing  and  shout. 

Long  you  stay. 

You  will  rise,  my  dear, 

From  the  grave. 

All  your  being  stirred 

By  a  spoken  word, 

Oil,  so  gladly  heard  ! 

You  will  rise. 


Alfred  X orris. 


7 


144  THE  BEREAVED 


OVER  THE  HILLSIDE 

Farewell  !     In  dimmer  distance 
I  watch  your  figures  glide, 

Across  the  sunny  moorland 
And  brown  hillside. 

Each  momently  uprising, 

Large,  dark,  against  the  sky  ; 

Then,  in  the  vacant  moorland, 
Alone  sit  I. 

Along  the  unknown  country 
Where  your  lost  footsteps  pass. 

What  beauty  decks  the  heavens 
And  clothes  the  grass  ! 

Over  the  mountain  shoulder 
What  glories  may  unfold  ! 

Though  I  see  but  the  mountain, 
Blank,  bare,  and  cold  ; 

And  the  white  road,  slow  winding 
To  where,  each  after  each, 

You  slipped  away — oh,  whither  ? 
I  cannot  reach. 

And  if  I  call,  what  answers  ? 

Only  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
Like  wail  of  parting  spirit, 

The  curlews  cry. 


THE  BEREAVED  145 

Yet  sunny  is  the  moorland, 

And  soft  the  pleasant  air, 
And  little  flowers,  like  blessings, 

Grow  everywhere. 

While,  over  all,  the  mountain 
Stands,  sombre,  calm,  and  still, 

Immutable  and  steadfast 
As  the  One  Will ; 

Which,  done  on  earth,  in  heaven, 

Eternally  confessed 
By  men,  and  saints,  and  angels, 

Be  ever  blest ! 

Under  Its  infinite  shadow, 

Safer  than  light  of  ours, 
I  '11  sit  me  down  a  little 

And  gather  flowers. 

Then  I  will  rise  and  follow, 

Without  one  wish  to  stay, 
The  path  ye  all  have  taken — 

The  appointed  way. 

Dinah  M.  Craik. 


146  THE  BEREAVED 


RESIGNATION 

To  a  quaint  old-fashion' d  homestead, 

With  its  ivied  towers, 
Came  a  Lady  in  the  spring-time, 

Came,  when  April's  sudden  showers, 
Glancing  through  the  fitful  sunshine, 

Ran  down  rainbows  into  flowers  ; 
And  she  said,  '  I  would  not  murmur ; 

God's  will  must  be  done ; 
So  I  've  brought  my  two  twin  daughters, 

And  come  here  to  feel  the  sun  ! ' 

Living  in  that  quiet  hamlet 

Through  three  chequer' d  years, 
She  was  known  in  every  cottage ; 

And  the  poor  tell,  in  their  tears, 
How  her  presence  made  them  happy, 

And    her    words    dispell'd    their 
fears. 
When  she  said,  '  O  do  not  murmur ! 

God's  will  must  be  done ; 
Take  my  alms,  and  ask  His  blessing, 

And  go  out  and  feel  the  sun  ! ' 


THE  BERKAVED  147 

Once  a  widow  met  her  walking 

Near  the  churchyard  stile, 
With  a  brow  as  free  from  sadness 

As  her  soul  was  free  from  guile. 
And  she  whisper  d  as  she  join'd  her, 

*  Lady,  teach  me  how  to  smile.' 
And  she  answer' d,  '  Honest  neighbour, 

God's  will  must  be  done  ; 
And  whene'er  thy  heart  is  drooping, 

Then  come  out  and  feel  the  sun  ! 

•  For,  I  tell  thee,  I  have  troubles ; 

More  than  one/  she  saith  : 
'  Have  I  seen  the  face  of  anguish, 

Heard  its  quick  and  catching  breath  ? 
Yea,  three  pictures  in  my  parlour 

Are  now  sanctified  by  death. 
Yet/  she  saith,  '  I  do  not  murmur ; 

God's  will  must  be  done  : 
But  I  take  my  two  twin  daughters, 

And  go  out  and  feel  the  sun ! ' 

In  the  rain  two  graves  are  greening, 

Greening  day  by  day, 
And  young  children,  when  they  near  them 

Playing,  cease  to  play, 
Lose  their  smiles  and  merry  glances, 

And  in  silence  steal  away. 
Yret  she  says,  '  I  will  not  murmur ; 

God's  will  must  be  done  : 
But  I  love  the  streaming  starlight 

Better  than  the  alter'd  sun.' 


148  THE  BEREAVED 

Never  weeps  she,  now  they've  left  her, 

Weeps  not  in  her  grief, 
But  she  talks  of  shining  angels, 

With  a  wild  uncheck'd  belief; 
When  all  earthly  hopes  have  fail'd  us, 

Hopes  of  Heav'n  still  give  relief. 
And  she  says,  '  I  will  not  murmur ; 

God's  will  has  been  done ; 
And,  though  /  am  left  in  darkness, 

They  are  somewhere  in  the  sun  ! ' 

James  Pritchett  Bigg. 


THE  HERKAVKD  L49 


BY  THE  DEAD 

You  are  gone  away,  away  ! 
Here  the  tabernacling  clay  : 
But  the  shutters  now  are  fast. 
And  the  door  has  swung  its  last  ; 
The  cold  body  lies  quite  still 
As  a  snowdrift  on  the  hill. 

Are  you  really  gone  away  ? 
You  were  with  me  night  and  day. 
Are  you  gone  ?    I  kiss  your  eyes, 
But  they  flutter  not  to  rise ; 
Long  1  whisper  in  your  ear — 
You  would  speak  if  you  were  here. 

You  are  gone,  dear  spirit,  where  ? 

Are  you  near  me  in  the  air — 

All  invisible  to  me  ? 

Yet  my  weeping  do  you  see, 

And  lean  downward  close  and  low, 

Watching  wistful  where  I  go? 

Do  you  feel  the  heat  of  the  sun, 
Chill  of  night  when  day  is  done, 
Clammy  touch  of  drifting  snow  ? 
Hear  the  wild  winds  when  they  blow 
Fluttering  leaves  and  falling  rain, 
Rivers  running  through  the  plain  ? 


150  THE  BEREAVED 

Do  you  see  the  purple  heath 
On  the  cliffs,  and  underneath 
Azure  seas  and  yellow  sands, 
Poppied  cornfields  on  the  lands  ? 
Or  is  earth,  its  sight  and  sound, 
So  much  loose  mist  coiling  round  ? 

When  at  night  upon  my  bed 
Seeking  sleep,  I  find  instead 
J      Some  strange  coldness  on  the  brow, 
Feel  it  coming — going  now — 
Is  your  presence  in  this  place, 
And  your  breath  upon  my  face  ? 

When  by  day  I  take  my  stand, 
Working  steady,  head  and  hand, 
Comes  a  warm  thrill  to  my  soul, 
Spreading  swiftly  through  the  whole- 
Are  you  there  with  touch  intense, 
Flashing  through  the  bars  of  sense  ! 

This  I  know  not,  but  I  know 
You  are  gone  from  all  below ; 
You  will  suffer  no  more  pain, 
Never  weep  nor  grieve  again — 
I  am  glad  that  this  is  known, 
Though  I  stay  here  all  alone. 

You  are  with  the  Saviour,  dear, 
And  He  tells  you  not  to  fear, 
Though  surpassing  glories  blind 
Mortal  eye  and  mortal  mind  ; 
And  He  shows  you  what  to  do 
In  the  land  with  all  things  new. 


THE  BEREAVED  151 

I  must  try  to  follow  on 

To  the  heaven  that  you  have  won  : 

I  remember  what  you  said, 

And  the  path  you  bid  me  tread — 

Though  I  cannot  see  you  near, 

I  shall  think  you  see  me  here. 

You  are  gone,  away,  away  ! 
Pass  the  night  and  pass  the  day  ; 
Oh,  to  meet  in  that  sweet  place, 
Hand  in  hand,  and  face  to  face — 
With  the  resting  there  to  rest, 
With  the  blessed  to  be  blest ' 

Alfred  Norrit. 


152  THE  BEREAVED 


LITTLE  CHRISTEL 

Come  in  softly  !     This  is  the  room  ; 

Is  not  that  an  innocent  face  ? 
Yes,  those  flowers  give  a  faint  perfume : 

Think,  child,  of  heaven,  and  the  Lord  His  grace. 

Three  at  the  right,  and  three  at  the  left, 
Two  at  the  feet,  and  two  at  the  head, 

The  tapers  burn.     The  friends  bereft 

Have  cried  till  their  eyes  are  swollen  and  red. 

Who  would  have  thought  it  when  little  Christel 
Pondered  on  what  the  preacher  had  told  ? 

But  the  good,  wise  God  does  all  things  well, 
And  the  fair  young  creature  lies  dead  and  cold. 

William  Brighty  Rands 
(Matthew  Browne). 


THE  BEREAVED  lfi 


A  FAREWELL  SONG 

Greetna,  father,  that  I  'm  gaein', 
For  fu'  weel  ye  ken  the  gaet. 

I'  the  winter,  corn  ye  're  saw  in' ; 
F  the  hairst,  again  ye  hae't. 

I  'm  gaein'  hame  to  see  my  mither, 
She  '11  be  weel  acquant  or  this  ; 

Sair  we  '11  muse  at  ane  anither, 

'Tween  the  auld  word  an*  new  kiss. 

Love,  I'm  doubtin',  will  be  scanty 
Roun'  ye  baeth  when  I  'm  awa'  ; 

But  the  kirk  has  happin'  plenty, 
Close  aside  me,  for  you  twa ; 

An',  aboon,  there's  room  for  mony  — 
"f  wasna  made  for  ane  or  twa  ; 

But  it  grew  for  a'  an'  ony 
Countin'  love  the  best  ava'. 

Here,  aneath,  I  ca'  ye  father: 

Auld  names  we  '11  nor  tyne  nor  spare  ; 
A'  my  sonship  I  maun  gather, 

For  the  Son  is  King  up  there. 

Greetna,  father,  that  I  'm  gaein' 
For  ye  ken  fu'  weel  the  gaet ; 

Here,  in  winter,  cast  yer  sawin' — 
There,  in  hairst,  again  ye  hae  't. 

George  Mac  Donald 


154  THE  BEREAVED 


THE  GIRL  THAT  LOST  THINGS 

It  was  a  girl  that  lost  things, 
Nor  only  from  her  hand  ; 

She  lost,  indeed — why,  most  things, 
As  if  they  had  been  sand  ! 

She  said,  '  But  I  must  use  them  ! 

I  cannot  hoard  them  all ! 
Indeed,  I  did  not  lose  them, 

I  only  let  them  fall ! ' 

And  first  she  lost  her  thimble — 

It  fell  upon  the  floor ; 
Her  eyes  were  very  nimble, 

But  she  never  saw  it  more. 

And  then  she  lost  her  dolly — 

Her  very  doll  of  all ! 
And  that  was  far  from  jolly. 

But  worse  things  did  befall. 

She  lost  a  ring  of  pearls, 
With  a  ruby  in  them  set ; 

But  the  dearest  girl  of  girls 
Cried  only,  did  not  fret. 

She  lost  her  way,  far  wandering, 

But  no  ill  did  betide  ; 
Brook-like,  she,  but  meandering, 

Came  home  on  t'other  side. 


THE  BEREAVED  155 

And  once  she  lost  a  kiss, 

It  was  upon  the  stair; 
But  that  she  did  not  miss, 

For  sure  it  was  somewhere  ! 

Just  there  she  lost  her  heart,  too : 

But  did  so  well  without  it, 
She  took  that  in  good  part,  too, 

And  said  not  much  about  it. 

But  when  she  lost  her  health, 

She  did  feel  rather  poor; 
Then  in  came  loads  of  wealth 

By  quite  another  door  ! 

And  then  she  lost  a  dimple 

That  was  upon  her  cheek  ; 
But  that  was  very  simple — 

She  was  so  thin  and  weak. 

And  then  she  lost  her  mother, 
And  thought  that  she  was  dead ! 

And  there  was  not  another 
On  whom  to  lay  her  head ! 

And  then  she  lost  herself — 

But  that  she  threw  away ; 
And  God  upon  His  shelf 

It  carefully  did  lay. 

At  last  she  lost  the  world — 

But  that  she  did  not  mind  ! 
Away  from  it  she  whirled 

In  a  black  and  stormy  wind — 


15G  THE  BEREAVED 

Away  to  the  land  of  lost  things, 
The  land  of  lovely  saving  ; 

And  there  she  found — why,  most  things, 
And  all  things  worth  the  having. 

For  first  she  found  her  mother. 
And  for  very  joy  she  cried  ; 

And  then  she  found  that  other 
Who  kept  her  heart  inside. 

And  then  she  found  the  kiss 

She  lost  upon  the  stair ; 
She  had  it  back,  I  guess, 

But  to  keep  it  did  not  care. 

And  she  found  herself  all  mended, 
New-fitted  clean  and  white  ; 

And  she  found  her  health  new-blended 
With  a  radiant  delight. 

So,  if  you  cannot  keep  things, 

Be  quiet  till  to-morrow  ; 
And  mind  you  don't  beweep  things 

That  are  not  worth  your  sorrow. 

For  the  Father  great  of  fathers, 
And  of  all  the  girls  and  boys, 

Us  in  His  arms  all  gathers, 
And  cares  about  our  toys. 

George  Mae  Donald. 


THK  BEREAVED  157 


IN  THE  CHURCHYARD 

Oh,  ye  dead  !   oh,  ye  dead !    ye  are  lying  at  your 

rest ; 
I  am  lying  thus  above  you,  and  I  know  not  which 

is  best : 
Just  between  us  are  the  grasses,  and   the  gravel, 

and  the  clay, 
But  they  measure  not  the  distance  into  which  you 

pass  away. 

Reaching  downward  grow  the  rootlets  of  the  flowers 

and  the  heath, 
But    they  cannot  touch    the  bodies  that  are  lying 

underneath ; 
For  the   eye   and   ear  have  wasted,  and   the  busy 

heart  decayed, 
Dust  to  dust  your  all  resolving,  as  from  dust  your 

all  was  made. 

I    look  upon  the  sunshine,    and    the   sea-waves  as 

they  roll, 
And  the  clouds  in  high  mid-heaven — are  such  sights 

before  your  soul  ? 
I  hear  the  breeze  and  streamlet,  and  the  curlew, 

and  the  sheep 
Bleating  far  upon  the  mountain — do  they  wake  you 

out  of  sleep  ? 


1.58  THE  BEREAVED 

Do  you  know  the  change  of  seasons,  as  of  old  they 

come  and  go — 
Now  the  flowers,  now  the  fruitage,  now  the  fading, 

now  the  snow  ? 
Do  you  feel  a  sudden   trembling  when  the  loved 

ones  tread  above, 
And  the  echo  of  their  footsteps  is  the  echo  of  their 

love  ? 

Do  you  find  a  thrill  of  sorrow  as  the  husband,  or 

the  wife, 
Dry  their  tears  for  the  departed,  and  begin  to  search 

their  life — 
Till  another  takes  his  station  in  the  fields  you  used 

to  tread, 
And  another  takes  your  pillow  and  upon  it  lays  her 

head  ? 

Do  such  earthly  matters  move  you  ?    You  are  passed 

from  hence  away 
Into  larger  joys  and  sorrows  than  belong  to  thisourday; 
And  you  look  upon  the  whirling  of  this  life  with 

calmer  eyes 
That  have  learned  to  bear  the  measure  of  eternity's 

surprise. 

f    Are  you  near  us  ?     Can  you  see  us  ?    Can  you  watch 

us  in  our  ways  ? 
Do  you  witness  all  the  evil — all  the  good  of  all  our 

days? 
Do  you,  knowing  all  things  better,  wonder  at  us  in 

our  strife, 
As  we  clutch  the  tinsel  gilding,  and  pass  by  the 

Crown  of  Life  ? 


THE  BEREAVED  159 

Oh,  ye  dead  !    oh,  ye  dead !    young  and    old,  and 

small  and  great, 
Now  you  know  your  doom  of  sorrow,  or  your  high 

and  blest  estate  ; 
And  I  wonder,  as  1  ponder,  what  you  feel  and  what 

you  see, 
As  according   to  the   sowing  so  the  reaping   now 

must  be. 

It  is  strange  to  sit  so  thinking ;  it  is  stranger  still 

to  know 
We  must  soon  lie  down  and  join  you  in  the  land  to 

which  ye  go  ; 
We  must  soon  put  off  this  body  with  its  tabernacling 

clay, 
And  salute  the  world  of  spirits,  as  a  spirit  passed 

away. 

Oh,  ye  dead !    oh,  ye  dead !   small  and  great,  and 

young  and  old, 
I  am  longing  for  your  secret,  and  my  longing  makes 

me  bold. 
But,   since  the  day  they   brought  you    from    your 

houses  on  the  hill, 
You  have  kept  that  secret  steadfast,  and    I  know 

will  keep  it  still. 

Alfred  Norris. 


1G0  THE  BEREAVED 

NOT  LOST,  BUT  GONE  BEFORE 

One  of  God's  own  darlings  was  my  bosom's  nestling 
dove, 
With  her  looks  of  love  and   sunshine,   and  her 
voice  so  rich  and  low  ; 
How  it  trembled  through  my  life,  like  an  Immortal's 
kiss  of  love ! 
How  its  music  yearns  through  all  my  memory  now ! 

Oh  !  her  beauty  rainbows  round  me,  and  her  sweet 
smile,  silvery 
As  a  song,  fills  all  the  silence  of  the  midnight's 
charmed  hours ; 
And   I   know  from  out  her  grave  she  '11  send  her 
love  in  death  to  me, 
By  the  Spring  in  smiling  utterance  of  flowers. 

Oh !  my  Love,  too  good  for  earth,  has  gone  into  the 
world  of  light ! 
It  was  hard,  she  said,  to  leave  me,  but  the  Lord 
had  need  of  her ! 
And  she  walks  the  heavens  in  glory,  like  a  star  in 
the  crown  of  night, 
With  the  beautiful  and  blessed  mingling  there. 

Gone  before  me,  to  be  clothed  on  with  bridal  robe 
of  white, 
Where  Love's  blossom  flowers  to  fruit  of  know- 
ledge— suffering  's  glorified  ! 
And  my  love  shall  make  me  meet  and  worthy  of 
her  presence  bright, 
That  in  heaven  I  may  claim  her  as  my  Bride. 

Gerald  Masscy. 


THE  BEREAVED  161 


THE  FLOWER  FADETH 

Softly 

She  is  lying 

With  her  lips  apart, 
Whisper 

She  is  dying 

Of  a  broken  heart. 

Nearer 

Though  she  's  setting 
Her  far  look  above, 
Dearer 

Though  forgetting 
All  our  little  love. 

Ponder 

What  a  stoiy 
These  poor  lips  could  tell ! 
Wonder 

What  a  glory 

Hers  in  that  frail  shell ! 

Praying 

Would  'twere  over, 
As  we  catch  her  sigh, 
Praying 

Let  us  love  her 

More  before  she  die. 


162  THE  BEREAVED 

Hush ! 

Now  she 's  as  distant 
As  a  thousand  years ; 
Weep, 

For  Death  has  left  us 

Nought  but  these  cold  tears. 

Roses,  you  may  blossom, 

Lilies,  you  may  blow, 
But  on  yon  cold  bosom 

All  my  flowers  lie  low. 

William  Knox  Macadam. 


THE  BEREAVED  1G3 


HOME  VISIONS 

I  have  gone — I  cannot  always  go,  you  know  ; 

Best  'tis  so — 
Home  across  the  distant  ridges  of  the  years 

With  my  tears, 
And  the  old  house,  standing  still  in  the  old  ground, 

There  I  found. 

In  the  parlour,  in  my  fancy,  I  could  trace 

Father's  face ; 

And  my  mother,  with  her  old  accustomed  air, 

Sitting  there ; 

Whilst  beside  them,  brothers,  sisters,  true  and  good, 

Silent  stood. 

Through  the  stillness  swarm  the  song  of  summer 
bird, 

And  there  stirred 
On  the  wall  the  leaf-flecked  sunshine  ;  and  its  glow 

Faded  slow ; 
But,  from  all  the  loving  lips  I  watched  around, 

Not  a  sound. 

Then  I  went  upstairs,  slow  entering  in  their  glooms 

All  the  rooms  ; 

And  I  trod  with  softened  step  along  the  floors, 

Opened  doors  ; 

But  I  never  heard  a  voice,  or  met  a  soul 

In  the  whole. 


164  THE  BEREAVED 

Of  the  breaths  that  stirred  the  draperies  to  and  fro 

Long  ago — 

Of  the  eyes  that  through  the  casements  used  to  peep 

Out  of  sleep — 

Of  the  feet  that  in  these  chambers  used  to  run — 

Now  are  none. 

Of  the  sunshine  pouring  downward  from  the  sky, 

Blue  and  high — 

Of  the  leafage  and  the  ancient  garden-plot, 

Brown  and  hot — 

Of  the  streamlet,  and  the  shingle,  and  the  tide — 

These  abide. 

But  beyond  the  azure  vaulting  overhead 

Are  my  dead ; 

Though  their  graves  were  dug  apart  in  many  lands, 

Joining  hands, 

Have  they  gather'd  !    Are  they  waiting  till  I  come  ? 

That  is  Home. 

Alfred  Norris, 


THE  BEREAVED  16.5 


A  SONG  OF  REST 

Here  God  has  given  His  beloved  sleep! 

It  is  dark  night  within,  and  all  the  bed 
Is  folded  smooth  by  Him  that  made  it ;  deep, 

And  curtained  close  about  the  feet  and  head. 
There  is  no  rise  or  falling  of  the  breast, 

The  earth  lies  light  upon  them,  and  the  sod 
Heaves  not.    The  heart  for  evermore  hath  rest 

When  once  its  beatings  have  been  stilled  by  God ; 
For  they  that  talked  with  it  have  taken  flight. 

There  are  no  busy  voices  underground, 
When  thought  and  memory  have  said  '  Good-night ! ' 

And  passed,  in  fear  to  break  a  sleep  so  sound  ; 
Yet  they  whom  slumber  wraps  so  sweetly  now 

Were  wont  erewhile  a  troubled  watch  to  keep, 
And  slept  perchance  for  sadness  :  wait,  and  thou 
Shalt  also  sleep  ! 

And  here  the  sleep  that  God  hath  given  is  sweet  : 

So  sweet,  that  they  are  covetous  of  rest 
That  slumber  here,  and  when  the  parted  meet 

They  speak  not,  even  they  that  loved  the  best ; 
For  they  have  rest  from  all,  and  love  had  grown 

Too  dear  for  quietness,  so  now  they  sleep 
Until  the  hour  when  God  shall  give  His  own 

Beloved  ones  a  rest  more  full  and  deep. 


166  THE  BEREAVED 

While  from  the  ground  a  voice  unto  me  cries, 

'  Here  God  hath  given  sleep/  an  answer  clear 
Falls  from  the  solemn,  bright,  attesting  skies  : 

'  He  giveth  rest  and  love  together  here  ! ' 
Sleep  is  not  rest — yet  softly  on  it  now 
The  shadow  of  a  rest  beyond  it  lies, 
And  lengthens  ever  :  wait,  my  soul,  and  thou 
Shalt  also  rise ! 

Dora  Greenwell. 


THE  BEREAVED  107 


HER  PILGRIMAGE 

The  snow-flakes  floated  many  a  star 
To  earth  from  pale  December's  skies, 

When  a  fair  spirit  from  afar 

Smiled  through  an  infant's  violet  eyes. 

And  as  she  sweetly  breathed,  the  hours 
Wove,  like  a  robe  of  gossamer, 

All  grace  about  her,  while  the  flowers 
Their  tints  and  perfumes  gave  to  her. 

In  after  time,  when  violets  grew, 
And  pale  anemones  veiled  the  land, 

She  drooped  her  modest  eyes  of  blue, 
And  gave  to  Love  her  maiden  hand. 

Four  times  the  holy  angels  came 
To  greet  her  with  a  dear  unrest  ; 

And,  in  a  mother's  saintly  name, 
Left  a  young  angel  on  her  breast. 

Eight  lustrums'  pure  celestial  eyes 

Beamed  through  her  tender,  loving  gaze, 

Commingling  all  the  sweet  surprise 
Of  heavenly  with  the  earthly  rays. 

At  last,  her  gentle  face  grew  pale 

As  the  anemones  of  spring  ; 
And  whiter  than  her  bridal  veil 

Was  that  in  which  she  took  her  wing. 


168  THE  BEREAVED 

And  than  that  fixed  despair  more  white, 
Softly  the  stars,  in  feathery  snows, 

Came,  covering  with  serener  light 
Her  folded  hands,  her  meek  repose. 

Pale  stars,  through  which  the  night  looked 
down, 
Until  they  wept  away  in  showers 
On  those  dear  hands,  which  clasped  the 
crown, 
And  closer  still  the  cross  of  flowers. 

The  snow-flakes  melt  on  earth  in  tears ; 

The  eternal  stars  in  glory  shine  ; 
While  in  the  shroud  of  desolate  years 

Dead  Love  awaits  the  immortal  sign. 


THE  BEREAVED  169 


ARE  THE  CHILDREN  AT  HOME  r 

Each  day  when  the  glow  of  sunset 

Fades  in  the  western  sky, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  tripping  lightly  by, 
I  steal  away  from  ray  husband, 

Asleep  in  his  easy-chair, 
And  watch  from  the  open  doorway 

Their  faces  fresh  and  fair. 

Alone  in  the  dear  old  homestead 

That  once  was  full  of  life, 
Ringing  with  girlish  laughter, 

Echoing  boyish  strife, 
We  two  are  waiting  together  ; 

And  oft  as  the  shadows  come, 
With  tremulous  voice  he  calls  me  : 

'  It  is  night !  are  the  children  home  ? 

1  Yes,  love  ! '  I  answer  him  gently, 

'They're  all  home  long  ago'  ; — 
And  I  sing  in  my  quavering  treble, 

A  song  so  soft  and  low, 
Till  the  old  man  drops  to  slumber, 

With  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
And  I  tell  to  myself  the  number 

Home  in  the  better  land 


170  THE  BEREAVED 

Home ,  where  never  a  sorrow 

Shall  dim  their  eyes  with  tears  : 
Where  the  smile  of  God  is  on  them 

Through  all  the  summer  years  ! 
I  know  ! — Yet  my  arms  are  empty, 

That  fondly  folded  seven, 
And  the  mother  heart  within  me 

Is  almost  starved  for  heaven. 

Sometimes  in  the  dusk  of  evening, 

I  only  shut  my  eyes, 
And  the  children  are  all  about  me, 

A  vision  from  the  skies  : 
The  babes  whose  dimpled  fingers 

Lose  the  way  to  my  breast, 
And  the  beautiful  ones,  the  angels. 

Passed  to  the  world  of  the  blessed. 

With  never  a  cloud  upon  them, 

I  see  their  radiant  brows  : — 
My  boys  that  I  gave  to  freedom, — 

The  red  sword  sealed  their  rows  ! 
In  a  tangled  southern  forest, 

Twin  brothers,  bold  and  brave, 
They  fell :  and  the  flag  they  died  for, 

Thank  God !  floats  over  their  grave. 

A  breath,  and  the  vision  is  lifted 

Away  on  wings  of  light, 
And  again  we  two  are  together, 

All  alone  in  the  night. 


THE  BEREAVED  171 

They  tell  me  his  mind  is  failing, 

But  I  smile  at  idle  fears  : 
He  is  only  back  with  the  children, 

In  the  dear  and  peaceful  years. 

And  still  as  the  summer  sunset 

Fades  away  in  the  west, 
And  the  wee  ones,  tired  of  playing, 

Go  trooping  home  to  rest, 
My  husband  calls  from  his  corner, 

'Say,  love  !  have  the  children  come  ?* 
And  I  answer,  with  eyes  uplifted, 

1  Yes,  dear !  they  are  all  at  home  ! ', 

M.  E.  M.  Sangder. 


172  THE  BEREAVED 


THE  SILENT  PRAYER 

She  prayed  :  I  watched  her  nightly 
On  her  knees  beside  the  bed, 

And  for  awhile  each  prayer-time 
I  heard  the  words  she  said. 

And  then  there  fell  a  silence 

On  her  bowed  head,  and  I  thought 

My  senses  had  been  sleeping, 

Since  her  words  I  had  not  caught. 

But  duly  as  the  night  came, 
Came  that  silent  prayer  again  ; 

I  marked  her  lips  unmoving, 
And  I  knew  the  mystery  then. 

Was  she  praying  for  the  living  ? 

Was  she  praying  for  the  dead  ? 
There  was  no  sobbing,  sighing, 

And  not  a  tear  was  shed. 

She  was  fragile  in  her  beauty 
As  a  leaf  before  the  blast : 

Was  she  praying  for  sweet  patience 
Till  the  storm  was  over-past  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  of  her  loving  ? 

Who  shall  tell  us  of  her  tears  ? 
She  is  gone  from  us  for  ever 

In  her  uncompleted  years. 


THE  BEREAVED  173 

Gone  like  snow  from  off  the  mountain, 
Gone  like  mist  from  out  the  vale  ; 

In  her  golden  hour  of  morning 
She  was  swept  before  the  gale. 

She  never  told  in  dying 

What  had  winged  that  silent  prayer, 
But  sometimes  we  divined  it, 

When  we  saw  her  look  so  fair  ; 

Fair  with  lilies  on  her  forehead, 

Fair  as  lilies,  and  as  sweet ; 
Fair  with  slumber  on  her  forehead, 

Fair  with  silence  at  her  feet. 

Ere  the  hand  of  death  could  reach  her 

She  had  flown  to  meet  his  kiss ; 
Ere  another  land  could  claim  her, 

She  was  far  away  from  this. 

She  was  far  beyond  our  sunshine, 

She  was  breathing  other  air, 
Alone  with  her  Creator 

In  the  shadow  of  a  prayer. 

Eleanor  a  L.  Harvey. 


174  THE  BEREAVED 


REMEMBER 

Remember  me  when  I  am  gone  away, 
Gone  far  away  into  the  silent  land ; 
When  you  can  no  more  hold  me  by  the  hand, 
Nor  I  half  turn  to  go,  yet  turning  stay. 
Remember  me  when  no  more  day  by  day 
You  tell  me  of  our  future  that  you  planned  ; 
Only  remember  me  :  you  understand 
It  will  be  late  to  counsel  then  or  pray. 
Yet  if  you  should  forget  me  for  a  while, 
And  afterwards  remember,  do  not  grieve  : 
For  if  the  darkness  and  corruption  leave 
A  vestige  of  the  thoughts  that  once  I  had, 
Better  by  far  you  should  forget  and  smile, 
Than  that  you  should  remember  and  be  sad. 

Christina  G.  Rossettl 


THE  BEREAVED  175 


SOUND  SLEEP 

Some  are  laughing,  some  are  weeping : 
She  is  sleeping,  only  sleeping. 
Round  her  rest  wild  flowers  are  creeping : 
There  the  wind  is  heaping,  heaping 
Sweetest  sweets  of  summer's  keeping, 
By  the  corn-fields  ripe  for  reaping. 

There  are  lilies,  and  there  blushes 
The  deep  rose,  and  there  the  thrushes 
Sing  till  latest  sunlight  flushes 
In  the  west :  a  fresh  wind  brushes 
Through  the  leaves  while  evening  hushes. 

There  by  day  the  lark  is  singing, 
And  the  grass  and  weeds  are  springing : 
There  by  night  the  bat  is  winging  : 
There  for  ever  winds  are  bringing 
Far-off  chimes  of  church-bells  ringing. 

Night  and  morning,  noon  and  even, 
Their  sound  fills  her  dreams  with  Heaven : 
The  long  strife  at  length  is  striven : 
Till  her  grave-bands  shall  be  riven  : 
Such  is  the  good  portion  given 
To  her  soul  at  rest  and  shriven. 

Christina  G.  Hossetti. 


176  THE  BEREAVED 


GRANDFATHER'S  PET 

This  is  the  room  where  she  slept 

Only  a  year  ago, 
Quiet  and  carefully  swept, 

Blinds  and  curtains  like  snow, 
There  by  the  bed  in  the  dusky  gloom 
She  would  kneel  with  her  tiny  clasped  hands  and 

pray : 
This  is  the  little  white  rose  of  a  room 
With  the  fragance  fled  away  ! 

Erne,  grandfather's  pet, 

With  her  wise  little  face, 
I  seem  to  see,  to  see  her  yet 

Singing  about  the  place. 
But  the  crowds  roll  on,  and  the  streets  are  drear, 
And  the  world  seems  hard  with  a  bitter  doom, 
And  Effie  is  singing  elsewhere,  and  here 
Is  the  little  white  rose  of  a  room. 

Why,  if  she  stood  j  ust  there 

As  she  used  to  do, 
With  her  long,  light  yellow  hair 

And  her  eyes  of  blue, — 
If  she  stood,  I  say,  at  the  edge  of  the  bed, 
And  ran  to  my  side  with  a  living  touch, 
Though  I  know  she  is  quiet,  and  buried  and  dead, 
I  should  not  wonder  much  : 


THE  BEREAVED  177 

For  she  was  so  young,  you  know — 

Only  seven  years  old, 
And  she  loved  me,  loved  me  so, 

Though  I  was  grey  and  old. 
And  her  face  was  so  wise  and  so  sweet  to  see 
That  it  still  looked  living  when  she  lay  dead, 
And  she  used  to  plead  for  mother  and  me 
By  the  side  of  that  very  bed. 

I  wonder  now  if  she 

Knows  I  am  standing  here, 
Feeling,  wherever  she  be, 

We  hold  the  place  so  dear  ? 
It  cannot  be  that  she  sleeps  too  sound, 
Still  in  her  little  nightgown  dressed, 
Not  to  hear  my  footsteps  sound 
In  the  room  where  she  used  to  rest. 

Nay  !  though  I  am  dull  and  blind, 

Since  men  are  bad  and  base, 
The  Lord  is  much  too  kind 

To  mar  such  a  sweet  young  face. 
Why,  when  we  stood  by  her  still  bedside 
She  seemed  to  breathe  like  a  living  thing, 
And  when  I  murmured  her  name,  and  cried, 
She  seemed  to  be  listening. 

I  have  felt  hard  fortune's  stings, 

And  battled  in  death  and  strife, 
And  never  thought  much  of  things 

Beyond  this  human  life : 

M 


178  THE  BEREAVED 

But  I  cannot  think  that  my  darling  died 

Like  great  strong  men,  with  their  prayers  untrue ; 

Nay,  rather  she  sits  at  God's  own  side, 

And  sings  as  she  used  to  do. 

A  weary  path  I  have  trod, 

And  now  I  feel  no  fear ; 
For  I  cannot  think  that  God 

Is  so  far,  since  she  was  here  ! 
As  I  stand,  I  can  see  the  blue  eyes  shine, 
And  the  small  arms  reach  through  the  curtained 

gloom, 
While  the  breath  of  the  great  Lord  God  Divine 
Stirs  the  little  white  rose  of  a  room. 

Stewart  Robertson. 


THK  BEREAVED  179 


INTO  MARY'S  BOSOM 

Mary,  mother  of  all  mothers, 
First  in  love  as  pain  on  earth, 

Having  known  above  all  others 
Mysteries  of  death  and  birth  : 

Take,  from  travail  sore  released, 

One  more  mother  to  thy  breast. 

She,  like  thee,  was  pure  and  good, 
Happy-hearted,  young  and  sweet. 

Given  to  prayer,  of  Dorcas'  mood, 
Open  hands  and  active  feet ; 

Naught  missed  from  her  childless  life 

In  her  full  content  as  wife. 

But  God  said,  though  no  one  heard,— 
Neither  friend  nor  husband  dear, — 

Be  it  according  to  My  word, 
Other  lot  awaits  thee  here, 

One  more  loving  soul  must  be 

Born  into  this  world  for  Me. 

So  as  glad  as  autumn  leaf 

Hiding  the  small  bud  of  spring, 

She,  without  one  fear  or  grief, 
Her  Magnificat  did  sing, 

And  His  wondrous  ways  adored, 

Like  the  handmaid  of  the  Lord. 


180  THE  BEREAVED 

Nay,  as  neared  her  solemn  clay, 

Which  brought  with  it  life  or  death, 

Still  her  heart  kept  light  and  gay, 
Still  her  eyes  of  earnest  faith 

Smiled  with  deeper  peace  possessed  : 

He  will  do  what  seems  Him  best. 

And  He  did.     He  led  her,  brave 
In  her  blindfold  childlike  trust, 

To  the  threshold  of  the  grave, 
To  His  palace  gate.     All  just 

He  must  be,  or  could  not  here 

Thus  so  merciless  appear. 

He  must  see  with  larger  eyes, 
He  must  love  with  deeper  love  : 

We,  half  loving — scarce  half  wise, 
Clutch  at  those  He  doth  remove, 

See  no  cause  for — struggle  long 

With  our  sharp  mysterious  wrong. 

But  for  her  !  dear  saint  gone  up 
Into  Mary's  bosom  straight, 

All  the  honey  of  her  cup 

Yet  unspilled — not  left  to  wait 

Till  her  milky  mother's  breast 

Felt  the  sword-thrust  like  the  rest. 

Eight  sweet  days  she  had — full  stored 
With  her  new  maternal  bliss 

O'er  her  man-child  from  the  Lord. 
Then  He  took  her.     So  to  this 

Melt  her  seven-and-twenty  years, 

Gone  like  night  when  morn  appears. 


THE  BEREAVED  181 

Let  the  February  sun 

Shining  on  the  bursting  buds, 
And  the  baby  life  begun, 

And  the  bird  life  in  the  woods 

On  her  grave  still  calmly  shine 
With  a  beauty  all  divine. 

Though  we  cannot  trace  God's  ways, 
They  to  her  may  plain  appear, 

And  her  voice,  that  sang  His  praise, 
May  still  sing  it  loud  and  clear, 

O'er  this  silence  of  death  sleep 

Wondering  at  those  who  weep. 

Thus,  our  Father,  one  by  one 
Into  Thy  bright  home  we  go, 

With  our  work  undone  or  done, 
With  our  footsteps  swift  or  slow. 

Dark  the  door  that  doth  divide, 

But,  O  God,  the  other  side  ! 

Dinah  M.  Orotic, 


182  THE  BEREAVED 


A  SONG  OF  HOPE 

I  dinna  ken  what 's  come  ower  me ! 

There  's  a  how  whaur  ance  was  a  hert ! 
I  never  luik  oot  afore  me, 

An'  a  cry  winna  gar  me  stert ; 
There 's  naething  nae  mair  to  come  ower  me, 

Blaw  the  win'  frae  ony  airt ! 

For  i'  yon  kirkyaird  there  's  a  hillock, 

A  hert  whaur  ance  was  a  how ; 
An'  o'  joy  there  's  no  left  a  mealock — 

Deid  aiss  whaur  ance  was  a  low  ! 
For  i'  yon  kirkyaird  i'  the  hillock, 

Lies  a  seed  'at  winna  grow. 

It 's  my  hert  'at  hauds  up  the  wee  hillie — 
That 's  hoo  there  's  a  how  i'  my  breist ; 

It's  awa'  doon  there  wi'  my  Willie, 
Gaed  wi'  him  whan  he  was  releast ; 

It 's  doon  i'  the  green-grown  hillie, 
But  I  s'  be  efter  it  neist ! 

Come  awa',  nichts  an'  mornin's, 
Come  ooks,  years,  a'  time's  clan  ; 

Ye  re  walcome  ayont  ony  scornin'  , 
Tak'  me  til  him  as  fest  as  ye  can. 

Come  awa',  nichts  an'  mornin's, 
Ye  are  wings  o'  a  michty  span  ! 


THE  BEREAVED  18fl 

For  I  ken  he's  luikin'  an'  waitin', 

Luikin'  aye  doon  as  I  clim' ; 
Wad  I  hae  him  see  me  sit  greitin', 

I'stead  o'  gaein'  to  him  ? 
I  '11  step  oot  like  ane  sure  o'  a  meetin', 

I  '11  traivel  an'  rin  to  him. 

Georye  Mac  Domtld. 


184  THE  BEREAVED 


AT  NAIN 

Forth  from  the  city  portals  went 

Our  slow  and  mournful  train, 
With  him  for  whom  we  made  lament, 

Unmindful  of  our  pain, 
And  heedless  of  her  deadlier  grief 

Whose  numb  and  pulseless  woe 
Found  not  a  sob  to  give  relief, 

Nor  any  tears  to  flow — 
Above  her  grave  he  should  have  wept, 
To  his  her  tottering  footsteps  crept. 

When  last  she  trod  that  haunted  road, 

Her  griefs  on  him  were  stayed ; 
Ah,  bitter  then  the  tears  that  flowed, 

And  precious  then  the  dead. 
Perchance  that  day  she  little  cared 

For  aught  of  solace  left  : 
Yet  now  with  feebler  steps  she  fared, 

More  desolate,  worse  bereft, 
Amid  our  kindly  folk  alone, 
Voiceless,  impassive,  turned  to  stone. 

Who  might  recall  her,  e'en  to  pain  ? 

Or  give  her  sorrow  tears  ? 
Or  nerve  her  tranced  soul  again 

To  dare  the  desolate  years  ? 


THE  BEREAVED  185 

One  looks  the  mourner  in  the  face, 

And  lo,  she  lifts  her  eyes, 
And  all  her  numb  despair  gives  place, 

Hot  tears  and  sobs  arise ; 
We  blessed  Him  for  the  grace  which  broke 
Her  palsied  silence  ere  He  spoke. 

Like  stars  that  brood  above  our  night, 

His  eyes  with  tears  were  filled  ; 
Yet  all  men  felt  their  mystic  might, 

They  soothed  and  warmed  and  thrilled, 
And  when  He  bade  her  not  to  weep, 

Our  hearts  grew  faint  with  awe, 
So  strong  the  tones,  and  clear  and  deep, 

We  surely  deemed  He  saw 
Some  wondrous  vision  of  the  dead 
That  proved  our  tears  unwisely  shed. 

He  laid  His  hand  upon  the  bier, 

The  bearers'  steps  were  stayed  ; 
He  called,  and  lo,  the  dead  gave  ear 

Gave  ear,  and  raised  his  head, 
And  spake,  as  from  the  spirit-land, 

Some  words  we  might  not  gain 
Whose  paths  are  in  the  desert  sand, 

Who  eat  the  bread  of  pain — 
Not  ours  to  know  the  way  he  trod, 
Whose  spirit  had  gone  in  to  God. 

Ah,  what  might  such  a  wanderer  learn  ? 

Must  Lethe  steep  his  brain, 
Before  his  spirit  may  return 

To  our  dim  world  ajjain  ? 


186  THE  BEREAVED 

And  doth  he  never,  chafed  and  vexed, 
For  life  grown  dull  and  grey, 

By  questions  and  by  cares  perplexed, 
Yearn  for  the  bygone  day 

When,  closing  wearied  eyes,  he  thought, 

1  Life's  latest  task  is  well-nigh  wrought .'  ' 


How  calm  should  be  his  joys,  and  deep 

His  loves  august  and  pure, 
Whom  Jesus  wakens  from  the  sleep 

When  once  his  rest  was  sure. 
But  we,  our  feet  are  bruised  and  torn 

Much  weeping  dims  our  eyes, 
At  evening  we  desire  the  morn, 

The  darkness  at  sunrise ; 
Sleeping,  love  shall  not  call  us  back, 
Nor  lengthen  out  our  journey's  track. 


The  wistful  mother  claimed  him  not  : 

His  new  mysterious  life 
She  deemed  some  lone  and  lofty  lot, 

Some  wild  and  desolate  strife, 
Or  pilgrimage  on  paths  apart 

From  common  joys  and  fears, 
From  yearnings  of  a  woman's  heart 

And  meltings  of  her  tears. 
Nor  deemed  that  One  had  waked  the  dead 
For  tears  her  widowed  eyes  had  shed. 


THE  BEREAVED  187 

The  Master  watched  our  deepening  dread, 

Who  would  have  given  Him  then 
A  golden  crown  to  grace  His  head, 

A  guard  of  mailed  men  ; 
Yet  turned  to  her  whose  face  was  pale 

With  yearnings  and  with  joy, 
And  knew  the  spell  of  most  avail, 

And  gave  her  back  her  boy. 
She  clasped  her  darling  to  her  breast ; 
Christ's  quiet  footsteps  forward  pressed. 

George  A.  Ckadwick. 


188  THE  BEREAVED 


OURS 

He  had  only  baby  words, 
Little  music,  like  the  birds, 
Sweetly  inarticulate, 
Nothing  wise,  nor  high,  nor  great. 
Sunny  smiles  and  kisses  sweet — 
White  and  softly  childish  feet — 
Curls  that  floated  on  the  breeze — 
We  remember  him  for  these. 

They  are  weary  who  are  wise. 
He  looked  up  with  happy  eyes, 
Little  knowing,  little  seeing, 
Only  praising  God  by  being. 

Oh,  the  life  we  could  not  save ! 
Do  not  say,  above  his  grave, 
That  the  fair  and  darling  face 
Was  but  lent  a  little  space 
Till  the  Father  called  him  back, 
By  an  unknown  homeward  track. 
No,  though  Death  came  darkly  chill- 
Bade  the  beating  heart  be  still, 
Touching  him  with  fingers  cold — 
What  was  given  still  we  hold ; 
Though  he  died,  as  die  the  flowers, 
He  for  evermore  is  ours. 


THE  BEREAVED  189 

Ours,  though  we  must  travel  soon 
Onward  through  Life's  afternoon  ; 
Shadows,  falling  long  and  grey, 
Gather  round  the  western  day, 
And  our  twilight  visions  show 
How  the  years  shall  come  and  go. 

Little  maids,  writh  tangled  curls, 
Change  to  slender,  dreamy  girls ; 
Chubby  rogues  grow  tall,  and  then, 
Go  their  way  as  bearded  men. 
And  the  mother  stands  aside, 
With  an  ache  beneath  her  pride, 
And  a  sorrow  'mid  her  joys, 
For  the  vanished  babes  and  boys ; 
So  the  earlier  gladness  wanes — 
Rut  the  little  one  remains. 

M.  Veley. 


190  THE  BEREAVED 


TOKENS 

Of  all  the  flowers  rising  now, 

Thou  only  saw'st  the  head 
Of  that  unopened  drop  of  snow 

I  placed  beside  thy  bed. 

In  all  the  blooms  that  blow  so  fast 

Thou  hast  no  further  part, 
Save  those,  the  hour  I  saw  thee  last, 

I  laid  above  thy  heart. 

Two  snowdrops  for  our  boy  and  girl, 

A  primrose  blown  for  me, 
Wreathed  with  one  often-played-with  curl 

From  each  bright  head  for  thee. 

And  so  I  graced  thee  for  thy  grave, 

And  made  these  tokens  fast 
With  that  old  silver  heart  I  gave, 

My  first  gift — and  my  last. 

W.  B.  Philpot. 


THE  BEREAVED  191 


SAFE 

Safe?  the  battlefield  of  life 
Seldom  knows  a  pause  in  strife. 
Every  path  is  set  with  snares, 
Every  joy  is  crossed  by  cares. 
Brightest  morn  has  darkest  night, 
Fairest  bloom  has  quickest  blight. 
Hope  has  but  a  transient  gleam, 
Love  is  but  a  passing  dream, 
Trust  is  Folly's  helpless  waif. 
Who  dare  call  their  dearest  safe  ? 

But  thou,  though  peril  loom  afar, 

What  hast  thou  to  do  with  war  ? 

Let  the  wild  stream  flood  its  brink, 

There 's  no  bark  of  thine  to  sink. 

Let  Falsehood  weave  its  subtle  net, 

Thou  art  done  with  vain  regret. 

Let  Fortune  frown,  and  friends  grow  strange, 

Thou  hast  passed  the  doom  of  change. 

We  plan  and  struggle,  mourn  and  chafe — 

Safe,  my  Darling,  dead,  and  safe  ! 

&  K.  P. 


192  THE  BEREAVED 


GOOD-NIGHT 

Destroyer  !  what  do  you  here — here  by  my  poor 

little  nest  ? 
What  have   I    done  that  your  shadow  lies  on  my 

brightest  and  best  ? 
If  'twas  my  sin  that  smirched  the  cross  on  the  door, 

0  Death, 

Blood  of  mine  should  efface  it,  and  not  this  Innocent's 
passing  breath. 

O  cruel  to  drench  the  fleece  of  my  one  little  lamb 

with  thy  dew  ! 
O  sightless  to  quench  the  light  in  eyes  so  guileless 

and  true ! 
O  heartless  and  brainless  to  still  the  life  in  this  hand 

that  glows, 
And  the  love  and  the  thought  that  breed  in  these 

wide,  grey-fading  brows ! 

The  sweet,  unfaltering  voice  ! — '  Papa,  do  you  think 

1  shall  die  ? ' 

'Die,  my  dear?     All 's  in  God's  hands,  but  I  think 

— so  think  not  I, 
You  will  live  to  be  a  big  man  ;  and  when  I  am  old 

and  grey, 
You  shall  take  me  by  the  arm  and  guide  me  along 

the  way. 


THE  BEREAVED 

But  if  it  should  be  death,  do  you  know  what  it  is, 

little  one  ? — 
It  is  only  a  falling  asleep,  and  you  wake  and  the 

darkness  is  gone. 
And  mamma  and   papa  will   sleep  too ;   and  when 

that  the  day  is  come, 
We  shall  meet  all  together  in  heaven — in  heaven 

instead  of  at  home. 

Don't  you  know  that,  asleep  in  your  bed,  an  hour 

like  a  moment  seems  ? 
Be  not  afraid  of  that ! — it  is  past  in  a  night  without 

dreams. 
We  are  only  apart,  dear  child,  'twixt  the  evening 

and  morning  light ! ' 
'Good-night,  then,  papa,  and  God  bless  you  !' 

'  My  darling,  my  darling,  good-night ! ' 

Frederick  Greenwood. 


194  THE  BEREAVED 


THAT  NEVER  WAS  ON  SEA  OR  LAND 

I  dreamed  that  same  old  dream  again  last  night ; 
You  know  I  told  you  of  it  once,  and  more : 
The  sun  had  risen,  and  looked  upon  the  sea, 
And  turned  his  head  and  looked  upon  the  shore, 
As  if  he  never  saw  the  world  before. 

What  mystic,  mythic  season  could  it  be  ? 
It  was  October  with  the  heart  of  May. 
How  count  they  time  within  love's  calendar  ? 
Dreaming  or  waking,  I  can  only  say 
It  was  the  morning  of  our  wedding-day. 

I  only  know  I  heard  your  happy  step, 

As  I  sat  working  on  my  wedding-day 

Within  my  usual  place,  my  usual  task ; 

You  came  and  took  the  pen,  and  laughing,  '  Nay  ! ' 

You  said,  '  no  more  this  morning !     Come  away  ! ' 

And  I,  who  had  been  doing  dreamily 
Within  my  dream  some  fitful  thing  before 
(My  pen  and  I  were  both  too  tired  to  stop), 
Drew  breath — dropped  all  my  work  upon  the  floor, 
And  let  you  lead  me  mutely  to  the  door, 

And  out  into  a  place  I  never  saw, 
Where  little  waves  came  shyly  up  and  curled 
Themselves  about  our  feet ;  and  far  beyond 
As  eye  could  see,  a  mighty  ocean  swirled. 
1  We  go,'  you  said,  '  alone  into  the  world.' 


THE  BEREAVED  196 

But  yet  we  did  not  go,  but  sat  and  talked 
Of  usual  things,  and  in  our  usual  way  ; 
And  now  and  then  I  stopped  myself  to  think,  -  - 
So  hard  it  is  for  work-worn  souls  to  play, — 
Why,  after  all  it  is  our  wedding-day  ! 

The  fisher-folk  came  passing  up  and  down, 
Hither  and  thither,  and  the  ships  sailed  by, 
And  busy  women  nodded  cheerily  ; 
And  one  from  out  a  little  cottage  came, 
With  quiet  porches,  where  the  vines  hung  high, 

And  wished  us  joy,  and  'When  you're  tired/  she 

said, 
'  I  bid  you  welcome ;  come  and  rest  with  me.' 
But  she  was  busy  like  the  rest,  and  left 
Us  only  out  of  all  the  world  to  be 
Idle  and  happy  by  the  idle  sea. 

And  there  were  colours  cast  upon  the  sea 
Whose  names  I  know  not,  and  upon  the  land 
The  shapes  of  shadows  that  I  never  saw  ; 
And  faintly  far  I  felt  a  strange  moon  stand, — 
Yet  still  we  sat  there,  hand  in  clinging  hand, 

And  talked,  and  talked,  and  talked,  as  if  it  were 

Our  last  long  chance  to  speak,  or  you  to  me 

Or  I  to  you,  for  this  world  or  the  next ; 

And  still  the  fisherwomen  busily 

Passed  by,  and  still  the  ships  sailed  to  the  sea. 


196  THE  BEREAVED 

But  by-and-by  the  sea,  the  earth,  the  sky 
Took  on  a  sudden  colour  that  I  knew, 
And  a  wild  wind  arose  and  beat  at  them. 
The  fisherwomen  turned  a  deadly  hue, 
And  I,  in  terror,  turned  me  unto  you, 

And  wrung  my  wretched  hands,  and  hid  my  face. 

'  Oh,  now  I  know  the  reason,  Love/  I  said, 

' We  Ve  talked,  and  talked,  and  talked  the  livelong 

day, 
Like  strangers,  on  the  day  that  we  were  wed  ; 
For  I  remember  now  that  you  were  dead ! ' 

I  woke  afraid :  around  the  half-lit  room 

The  broken  darkness  seemed  to  stir  and  creep  ; 

I  thought  a  spirit  passed  before  my  eyes ; 

The  night  had  grown  a  thing  too  dread  for  sleep, 

And  human  life  a  lot  too  sad  to  weep. 

Beneath  the  moon,  across  the  silent  lawn, 
The  garden  paths  gleamed  white — a  mighty  cross 
Cut  through  the  shadowed  flowers  solemnly  ; 
Like  heavenly  love  escaped  from  earthly  dross, 
Or  heavenly  peace  born  out  of  earthly  loss. 

And  wild  my  uncalmed  heart  went  questioning  it : 

'  Can  that  which  never  has  been,  ever  be  ? ' 

The  solemn  symbol  told  me  not,  but  lay 

As  dumb  before  me  as  Eternity, 

As  dumb  as  you  are,  when  you  look  at  me. 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


THE  BEREAVED  197 


THE  NEW  NAME 

What  new  name  hae  they  gi'en  thee,  love, 

In  the  far-near  countree, 
That  nane  can  ken  but  them  wha  get  ? 

Oh  whisper  it  to  me  ! 

I  'm  wae  to  lose  thy  auld  sweet  name 

I  lo'ed  sae  weel  to  hear 
In  the  quiet  o'  the  gloamin'  hour, 

When  nane  kent  I  was  near. 

Thy  gloamin' s  noo  are  a'  gane  by, 

An'  wi'  them  meikle  pain  ; 
And  my  last  gloamin'  's  fa'in'  doon, 

But  I  am  a'  alane. 


In  the  near-far  o'  our  young  life 
Thy  name  was  changed  to  mine. 

Oh,  when  I  reach  thy  far-near  hame, 
May  my  new  name  be  thine  ! 

I).  Gifmoiir. 


198  THE  BEREAVED 


JUST  DEAD 

Draw  the  curtains  close, 

Whisper  a  brief,  brief  prayer 
For  him  so  pale  and  dumb  in  his  woes ; 
Lay  on  her  breast  a  white,  white  rose, 

And  leave  our  darling  there  ; 
With  the  peachy  bloom  that  lay  on  her  cheek 
Faded  away  to  a  single  streak, 
And  a  chill  on  her  bosom  that  throbs  no  more 
With  the  beautiful  life  that  hath  gone  before. 

O  breathing  white  rose, 

O  breathless  white  form, 
The  morning  comes  and  the  evening  goes 

With  change  of  calm  and  storm  ; 
But  ye  sweet  flowers  shall  fade  together, 
Where    darkness    and    silence     make    peacefuller 

weather 
Than  wait  on  the  hearts  that  say  in  their  pain, 
The  flower  that  was  fairest  shall  bloom  again. 


THE  BEREAVED  vx> 


ALL  SAINTS'  DAY 
(at  new  college  chapel,  oxford) 

I  shall  find  them  again,  I  shall  find  them  again. 
Though  I  cannot  tell  when  or  where  ; 

My  earthly  own,  gone  to  worlds  unknown, 
But  never  beyond  Thy  care. 

I  shall  find  them  again,  I  shall  find  them  again, 

By  the  soul  that  within  me  dwells, 
And  leaps  unto  Thee  with  rapture  free, 

As  the  jubilant  anthem  swells. 

'  /  heard  a  voice  saying.'     What  it  says 

I  hear.     So  perchance  do  they, 
As  I  stand  between  my  living,  1  ween, 

And  my  dead,  upon  All  Saints'  Day. 

And  I  see  all  clear — new  heavens,  new  earth, 

New  bodies,  redeemed  from  pain : 
New  souls— ah  !  not  so  :  with  the  soul  that  I  know 

Let  me  find,  let  me  find  them  again  ! 

Let  me  walk  with  them  under  any  sky, 

Beside  any  land  or  sea, 
In  what  shape  or  make  Thou  will'st  us  to  take, 

If  like  unto,  near  to,  Thee- 


200  THE  BEREAVED 

Let  me  wander  wherever  Thou  bidd'st  me  go, 

Rest,  labour,  or  even  remain, 
Lulled  in  long  still  sleep  in  the  earth  or  the  deep, 

If  I  wake  to  find  them  again. 

Only  at  times  does  the  awful  mist 

Lift  off,  and  we  seem  to  see 
For  a  moment's  space  the  far  dwelling-place 

Of  these,  our  beloved,  and  Thee. 

Only  at  times  through  our  soul's  shut  doors 

Come  visits  divine  as  brief, 
And  we  cease  to  grieve,  crying,  '  Lord,  I  believe, 

Help  Thou  mine  unbelief.' 

Linger  a  little,  invisible  host 

Of  the  sainted  dead  who  stand 
Perhaps  not  far  off,  though  men  may  scoff — 

Touch  me  with  unfelt  hand. 

But  my  own,  my  own,  ye  are  holding  me  fast, 
With  the  human  clasp  that  I  knew  ; 

Through  the  chorus  clear  your  voices  I  hear, 
And  I  am  singing  with  you. 

Ah,  they  melt  away  as  the  music  dies, 

Back  comes  the  world's  work,— hard,  plain: 

Yet  God  lifted  in  grace  the  veil  from  His  face. 
And  it  smiled,  '  Thou  shalt  find  them  again.' 

Dinah  M.  Craik. 


THE  BEREAVED  201 


THE  VISION  OF  THE  SNOW 

'She  lias  gone  to  be  with  the  angels/ 

So  they  had  always  said 
To  the  little  questioner  asking 

Of  his  fair  young  mother,  dead. 

They  never  had  told  of  the  darkness 
Of  the  sorrowful,  silent  tomb, 

Nor  scared  the  sensitive  spirit 
By  linking  a  thought  of  gloom 

With  the  girl-like  beautiful  being, 
Who  patiently  from  her  breast 

Had  laid  him  in  baby  sweetness, 
To  pass  to  her  early  rest. 

And  when  he  would  lisp,  l  Where  is  she  ? 

Missing  the  mother-kiss, 
They  answered,  '  Away  in  a  country 

That  is  lovelier  far  than  this  ; 

A  land  all  ashine  with  beauty, 
Too  pure  for  our  mortal  sight, 

Where  the  darling  ones  who  have  left  us 
Are  walking  in  robes  of  white.' 

And  with  eagerest  face  he  would  listen, 

His  tremulous  lips  apart, 
Till  the  thought  of  the  Beautiful  Country 

Haunted  his  yearning  heart. 


202  THE  BEREAVED 

One  morn,  as  he  gazed  from  the  window, 

A  miracle  of  surprise, 
A  marvellous,  mystic  vision, 

Dazzled  his  wondering  eyes. 

Born  where  the  winter's  harshness 
Is  tempered  with  spring-tide  glow. 

The  delicate  Southern  nursling 
Never  had  seen  the  snow. 

And  clasping  his  childish  fingers, 
He  turned  with  a  flashing  brow 

And  cried,  '  We  have  got  to  heaven  ; 
Show  me  my  mother  now  ! ' 


THE  BEREAVED 


THE  HYMN  OF  THE  DEAD 

O  !  somebody  dead  in  de  graveyard 

An'  somebody  dead  in  de  sea, 

Gwine  ter  wake  up  an'  shout  in  de  mornin', 

An'  sing  dat  Jubilee. 

Roll,  Jordan,  roll  ! 

Sister,  you  oughter  been  dar 

Ter  hear  dat  water  roll ; 

You  oughter  been  shout  in  de  kingdom 

Ter  hear  dat  river  roll. 

O  !  father  kilt  wid  a  bullet, 
An'  father  cyarved  wid  a  knife ; 
Yo'  woun'  '11  be  heal'  some  mornin', 
When  you  get  ter  de  Lan'  er  Life. 

Roll,  Jordan,  roll  ! 

There  's  nary  a  tow  nor  tugboat 

Ter  cross  dat  river's  roll. 

I  wanter  go  cross  in  der  calm  time, 

Fer  Jordan  's  chilly  an'  cole. 

O  !  chillen  dat 's  burnt  in  de  cabins 
Whilst  de  mammies  out  in  de  fiel', 
An'  chillen  dat  hears  de  death-call 
Whilst  dey  be  singhV  a  reel. 

Roll,  Jordan,  roll ! 

On  Jordan's  banks  I  '11  stan' 

Ter  hear  dat  water  roll ; 

I  'm  aimin'  for  Canaan  lan'. 


204  THE  BEREAVED 

O !  sister  dat  's  swingin'  wid  fever, 
An'  sister  dat 's  trimblin'  wid  chill, 
Gwine  have  a  love-feas'  to-morrer; 
You  had  better  drink  yo'  fill. 

Roll,  Jordan,  roll ! 

Dar  's  nary  a  skiff  for  de  sinner 

Ter  'scape  dat  water's  roll ; 

Nary  a  boat  nor  dugout 

Ter  save  de  sinner's  soul. 

O  !  chillen,  for  Canaan  Ian'. 

O  !  dem  dat's  pizen'  wid  conjure, 
An'  dem  dat 's  bit  by  a  snake, 
Dar 's  comin'  a  time  to-morrer 
Fer  you  ter  turn  over  an'  wake. 

Roll,  Jordan,  roll  ! 

Brother,  you  better  wade  in, 

Ter  hear  dat  water  roll. 

You  '11  leave  yo'  body  laden 

Des  on  de  t'urrer  sho'. 

O  !  mother  dat  drag  at  de  plough  han'le, 
An'  mother  dat  drap  at  de  hoe, 
When  you  walk  up  de  ladder  ter  heaven, 
You  won't  hatter  work  no  mo'. 
Roll,  Jordan,  roll  ! 
Mother  go  over  dry-shod 
Ter  hear  dem  waters  roll  : 
You'll  sholy  go  shoutin'  ter  glory, 
Across  dat  river's  roll. 


THE  BKKKAVKD  205 


IN  THE  SEA 

The  salt  wind  blows  upon  my  cheek, 

As  it  blew  a  year  ago, 
When  twenty  boats  were  crushed  among 

The  rocks  of  Norman's  Woe. 
'Twas  dark  then  ;  'tis  light  now, 

And  the  sails  are  leaning  low. 

In  dreams,  I  pull  the  seaweed  o'er, 

And  find  a  face  not  his, 
And  hope  another  tide  will  be 

More  pitying  than  this  : 
The  wind  turns,  the  tide  turns — 

They  take  what  hope  there  is. 

My  life  goes  on  as  thine  would  go, 
With  all  its  sweetness  spilled  : 

My  God,  why  should  one  heart  of  two 
Beat  on,  when  one  is  stilled  ? 

Through  heart-wreck,  or  home-wreck, 
Thy  happy  sparrows  build. 

Though  boats  go  down,  men  build  anew, 

Whatever  winds  may  blow  ; 
If  blight  be  in  the  wheat  one  year, 

We  trust  again  and  sow, 
Though  grief  comes,  and  changes 

The  sunshine  into  snow. 


206  THE  BEREAVED 

Some  have  their  dead,  where,  sweet  and  soon, 

The  summers  bloom  and  go  : 
The  sea  withholds  my  dead — I  walk 

The  bar  when  tides  are  low, 
And  wonder  the  grave-grass 

Can  have  the  heart  to  grow. 

Flow  on,  O  unconsenting  sea, 

And  keep  my  dead  below ; 
Though  night — O  utter  night !  my  soul, 

Delude  thee  long,  I  know, 
Or  life  comes,  or  death  comes, 

God  leads  the  eternal  flow. 

Hiram  Rich. 


THE  BKKKAVE1)  207 


CHRISTMAS  SONG  OF  THE  OLD  CHILDREN 

Well  for  youth  to  seek  the  strong, 

Beautiful  and  brave ! 
We,  the  old,  who  walk  along 

Gently  to  the  grave, 
Only  pay  our  court  to  thee. 
Child  of  all  Eternity  ! 

We  are  old  who  once  were  young, 

And  we  grow  more  old  ; 
Songs  we  are  that  have  been  sung, 

Tales  that  have  been  told ; 
Yellow  leaves,  wind-blown  to  thee, 
Childhood  of  Eternity ! 

Grey-haired  children  come  in  crowds, 

Thee,  their  Hope,  to  greet : 
Is  it  swaddling  clothes  or  shrouds 

Hampering  so  our  feet  ? 
Eldest  child,  the  shadows  gloom  ! 
Take  the  aged  children  home. 

Fair  is  this  out- world  of  thine, 

But  its  nights  are  cold  ; 
And  the  sun  that  makes  it  fine, 

Makes  us  soon  so  old  ! 
Long  its  shadows  grow  and  dim — 
Father,  take  us  back  with  him  ! 

George  Mac  Donald. 


208  THE  BEREAVED 


THE  WIFE  A-LOST 

Since  I  noo  mwore  do  zee  your  feace, 

Up  steairs  or  down  below, 
I  '11  zit  me  in  the  lwonesome  pleace, 

Where  flat-bough'd  beech  do  grow : 
Below  the  beeches'  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  come, 
An'  I  don't  look  to  meet  you  now, 

As  I  do  look  at  home. 

Since  you  noo  mwore  be  at  my  zide, 

In  walks  in  zummer  het, 
I  '11  goo  alwone  where  mist  do  ride, 

Drough  trees  a-drippen  wet : 
Below  the  rain-wet  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  come, 
An'  I  don't  grieve  to  miss  ye  now, 

As  I  do  grieve  at  home. 

Since  now  bezide  my  dinner-bwoard 

Your  vaice  do  never  sound, 
I  '11  eat  the  bit  I  can  avword, 

A-vield  upon  the  ground ; 
Below  the  darksome  bough,  my  love, 

Where  you  did  never  dine, 
An'  I  don't  grieve  to  miss  ye  now, 

As  I  at  home  do  pine. 


THE  BEREAVED 

Since  I  do  miss  your  vaice  an'  feace 

In  prayer  at  eventide, 
I  '11  pray  wi'  woone  said  vaice  vor  greiice 

To  goo  where  you  do  bide  ; 
Above  the  tree  an'  bough,  my  love 

Where  you  be  gone  avore, 
An'  be  a-waiten  vor  me  now, 

To  come  vor  evermwore. 

William  Barnes. 


210  THE  BEREAVED 


GOING  AWAY 

Do  not  be  angry  with  me 

For  an  idle  word  I  say  ; 
Do  not  be  angry,  father, 

Because  I  am  going  away. 
Have  patience  with  me,  my  mother, 

Though  I  may  have  none  with  you  ; 
But  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  mother, 

Whatever  I  say  or  do. 
Look  kindly  upon  me,  sister, 

You  are  beautiful  and  gay  ; 
Your  days  will  be  long  and  happy, 

But  I  am  going  away. 
With  me,  if  you  could  but  read  it, 

Clear  written  on  cheek  and  brow, 
There  is  no  past,  no  future, — 

Only  a  brief,  calm  Now : 
A  little  space  to  be  glad  in — 

A  lesser  space  to  grieve ; 
And  life's  whole  scene  fades  from  me, 

As  the  landscape  fades  at  eve. 
Except — that  eve  I  shall  see  not, 

My  day  is  ended  at  noon ; 
And  the  saddest  bit  of  the  story 

Is — it  does  not  end  too  soon. 


THE  BEREAVED  211 

1  am  so  weary,  weary  ! 

I  could  turn  my  face  to  the  wall ; 
Like  a  sick  child,  long  before  bedtime, 

Drop  asleep  among  you  all  : 
So  glad  that  lessons  are  over ; 

Still  gladder  that  play  is  done  ; 
And  a  dusky  curtain  stretches 

Between  me  and  the  sun. 

Good-bye,  my  father  and  mother ! 

Two  of  you — and  but  one  of  me  ! 
And,  sister,  you'll  find  some  stranger 

Much  closer  than  I  could  be : 
One  more — but  death's  quiet  teaching 

Is  making  me  slowly  wise  : 
My  heart,  too  poor  for  his  keeping — 

Thou,  God,  Thou  wilt  not  despise  : 
My  soul,  too  weak  for  earth's  battle, 

Thou  wilt  gird  up  anew  : 
And  the  angels  shall  see  me  doing 

The  work  I  was  meant  to  do  : 
The  work  that  I  ever  failed  in, 

And  wept  o'er,  and  tried  again, 
Till  brain  and  body  and  spirit 

Snapped  under  the  cruel  strain. 

That  is  over.     So  none  need  be  sorry ; 

You  rather  ought  to  rejoice, 
And  sing  my  vade  in  pacem 

Without  a  break  in  your  voice ; 


212  THE  BEREAVED 

And  let  me  depart  contented, 
Before  the  heat  of  the  day  ; 

For  I  shall  be  still  God's  servant. 
Although  I  have  gone  away ! 

Dinah  M.  Craik. 


THE  BEREAVED  213 


IN  EARLIEST  SPRING 

Tossing  his  mane  of  snows   in   wildest  eddies  and 
tangles, 
Warlike    March    cometh    in,    hoarse,    with    tern 
pestuous  breath. 
Through  all  the  moaning  chimneys,  and  thwart  all 
the  hollows  and  angles 
Round  the  shuddering  house,  breathing  of  winter 
and  death. 

But  in  my  heart  I  feel  the  life  of  the  wood  and  the 
meadow 
Thrilling  the  pulses  that  own  kindred  with  fibres 
that  lift 
Bud  and  blade  to  the  sunward,  within  the  inscrut- 
able shadow, 
Deep  in  the  oak's  chill  core,  under  the  gathering 
drift. 

Nay,   to   earth's  life  with   mine   some   presence   or 
dream  or  desire 
(How  shall  I  name  it  aright  ?)  comes  for  a  moment 
and  goes — 
Rapture  of  life  ineffable,  perfect — as  if  in  the  brier, 
Leafless  there  by  my  door,  trembles  a  sense  of 
the  rose. 

W.  D.  Howclh. 


EDINBURGH 

T.    &   A.    CONSTABLE 

Printers  to  Her  Majesty 

MDCCCXCVII 


